Day Ten: Golfing in the Rain

Earlier today, we were out golfing. Yes, I understand that it was raining out in our area earlier and the sky was dark and cloudy, but for a mid-August evening it was actually quite enjoyable. The moist grass cast a pleasant smell to my nostrils (which sounds weird, but it's no weirder than the fact that the sweet smell of freshly cut grass is actually a chemical compound released by the plants as a distress signal). The clouds overhead were nice and smooth in their shape, more friendly than menacing, like butterscotch pudding.

I have a thing about butterscotch. For some reason, I've always associated it with the English, just like Scottish puppies, sweater vests, and blancmange. Maybe it's the Monty Python influence, but I have an innate love for Great Britain. Seriously, they're the ones who produce the best television shows -- substance for intellectuals, not like the junk that's force fed to us here in the United States. While the English are watching Dr.Who, Sherlock, Downton Abbey, and their other cultured television series, we're watching Real Housewives, Honey Boo Boo, and Jersey Shore. It's a bit upsetting, not to mention appalling, how we treat the denizens of one of the most influential nations in the world.

But getting back to the topic, my parents had signed my siblings and me up for some golfing lessons. Since we were never athletically inclined (I run everyday, along with my brother and sister, but that's about the extent of my family's exercise regimen), they decided that including a four-hour long golfing session every week would be beneficial to our health, not to mention give us an extra thing to talk about around our friends.

It's funny, because that's not how things are with a lot of Chinese parents. Most tiger parents either want you to do something to the point of perfection, or else they would shamelessly tell you how much you suck until you finally gave up of your own accord and subjected yourself to their demands, often involving long hours of practice punctuated by the odd Chinese curse. My parents just want us to "have fun." It's one of the things that makes them awesome.

Except, of course, when it doesn't. Like today, when the light drizzle and friendly clouds morphed into fire breathing tigers that sent whiplashes driving into the trajectories of your shots, sending the balls flying miles off course. Like days when you've walked for miles through the mud, your caddy and clubs coated in an unrelenting sheen of mud, your clothes damp with a mixture of rainwater and sweat, your stomach rumbling from lunch. Like times when you feel like screaming at the ball for not realizing that its path to the hole is the one thing keeping you out on the course when every sensible person has gone to seek shelter.

It's simple joys like these that the mass consumerism of the US has taken away from us. Rather than going out into the rain to play a round of golf with friends, all you ever see are people moping around their televisions, complaining about lacking a life. Maybe if they'd let their eyes wander off the flickering screens, their feet lead them out the door, their heads turn towards the sky, they might see what they've been missing.

Breakfast: Pumpkin bun, oatmeal
Lunch: Turkey sandwich, grapes
Dinner: Turkey wrap, salad
Snacks: Bananas, veggie straws


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