Transitions
Nearing the end of my eleventh month of unemployment, I made two important transitions today that were a little late in coming.
Firstly, I threw away my wristwatch. It was an outdoor Swiss Army job that I liked very much. It would tell me the day of the month if only I could have remembered to advance the date for months having only 28, 29 and 30 days. But I never remembered. It had no provisions for telling me the day of the week and that's what a person in my situation needs more than anything else. (Never ask a retired person which day of the week it is because none of us have a clue, except on Sunday when the newspaper is thicker.) The quartz face was badly pitted by molten welding splatter and was nearly unreadable. Not that readability was much of an issue anyway because it had not kept accurate time for the past few months. Some days the sun rose at 2:00 in the morning and set at 3:00 in the afternoon according to my trusty Swiss Army chronometer! So I go forward depending upon only the sun and the kindness of strangers for the time of day.
And, secondly, I played golf for the first time on a weekday. What a hoot! Of course, I had a little problem with the tee time because (a) I had thrown away my wristwatch that had the incorrect time most of the time anyhow and (b) the clock in the Jeep was oddly incorrect as well because it had reset itself yesterday when the battery was replaced. Depending upon the kindness of some radio station, I reset it in route and managed to arrive in a timely fashion after a trip into town for some 41-cent postage stamps.
The first three holes was an indication that today's round of golf was going to take a concerted effort to produce a satisfactory result and to offer any hope of recovering my $10 bill from the hat pool. Yes, my putter was broken. Well, not broken. Just not working properly and I gave serious consideration to breaking it. Only on the last hole did it finally make a putt to save par and avoid spending the rest of it's miserable life in the murky depths of the lake beside the 18th green. But, alas, it made the putt, enabling me to break 90.
All is forgiven, Putter Boy ... for now. But you still owe me ten bucks, you little creap, and don't forget it.
Firstly, I threw away my wristwatch. It was an outdoor Swiss Army job that I liked very much. It would tell me the day of the month if only I could have remembered to advance the date for months having only 28, 29 and 30 days. But I never remembered. It had no provisions for telling me the day of the week and that's what a person in my situation needs more than anything else. (Never ask a retired person which day of the week it is because none of us have a clue, except on Sunday when the newspaper is thicker.) The quartz face was badly pitted by molten welding splatter and was nearly unreadable. Not that readability was much of an issue anyway because it had not kept accurate time for the past few months. Some days the sun rose at 2:00 in the morning and set at 3:00 in the afternoon according to my trusty Swiss Army chronometer! So I go forward depending upon only the sun and the kindness of strangers for the time of day.
And, secondly, I played golf for the first time on a weekday. What a hoot! Of course, I had a little problem with the tee time because (a) I had thrown away my wristwatch that had the incorrect time most of the time anyhow and (b) the clock in the Jeep was oddly incorrect as well because it had reset itself yesterday when the battery was replaced. Depending upon the kindness of some radio station, I reset it in route and managed to arrive in a timely fashion after a trip into town for some 41-cent postage stamps.
The first three holes was an indication that today's round of golf was going to take a concerted effort to produce a satisfactory result and to offer any hope of recovering my $10 bill from the hat pool. Yes, my putter was broken. Well, not broken. Just not working properly and I gave serious consideration to breaking it. Only on the last hole did it finally make a putt to save par and avoid spending the rest of it's miserable life in the murky depths of the lake beside the 18th green. But, alas, it made the putt, enabling me to break 90.
All is forgiven, Putter Boy ... for now. But you still owe me ten bucks, you little creap, and don't forget it.
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