My list of undone tasks is way too long -- pay bills, change the parrots' papers (a healthy parrot poops every 15 minutes, around the clock and there are five healthy parrots in my life happily pooping in concert), shop for stocking stuffers, get the guest room comforter off the shelf and into a duvet cover and onto the bed.
Apparently I'm not going to tend to any of these things until I've gotten my Saturday morning golf fix. It's as much a part of my life's rhythm as the bills, the parrots, sleeping and eating.
The Swedes have determined that golfers live an average of five years longer than non-golfers. It can't be just the exercise because a Swedish study of longevity has determined that the lower a golfer's handicap the greater the protective effect of the sport. In other words, good golfers live longer than bad golfers, and bad golfers live longer than non-golfers.
Even though that might mean only that one must play a lot of golf in order to achieve and maintain a low handicap and so it's really just a matter of getting outside for 4 or 5 hours two or three times a week, not how one actually executes the shots, I don't think so. I know that when I've played an especially good round of golf I return to my undone to-do list peaceful, tranquil, and mentally focussed, albeit physically depleted.
I know I should walk the course, but I ride around in a cart like a lazy slug. I know I should carry my clubs but I sling them on the back of the cart and grab an assortment pack when I have to trudge over hill and dale to locate a bad shot. I know I should avoid the 19th hole snack bar burger and chomp down on some salad but I delight in the burger's rewarding carbs and cholesterol. So I'm not going to realize the full health benefit from my round.
Nevertheless, I'm going to excuse myself, eat a bowl of oatmeal, slip into my rain pants, and go work on my handicap.
Fore!
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