File this paragraph under “Pre-Graduation Awe and Wonder.” Looking through my room today, I glanced at my cap and gown–the preferred attire this Sunday. A discouraging thought rushed through my head; had they taken down my measurements? A sort of sickness came over me, because one the last things I wanted, in addition to an Easy Bake Oven or an enema, was to find out that my cap and gown was going to be for Papa Bear or Mama Bear. So, without really thinking about it, I tried on my gown. Much to my relief, it fit me well. Then, I looked in the mirror. I had just put the cap on for my own amusement, and my reflection freaked me out. What had started out as a simple “Hey, does this make my butt look big?” experiment had somehow morphed into a cataclysmic apprehension about my Sunday plans. I took a few seconds, a deep breath, and got over it. Couldn’t stop it if I wanted to, really.
And then I hit the ever-lovin’ piss out of my hybrid three-iron. And my six. And my driver, once. I’m not a golfer, really. But I’m starting to play something that could pass as golf, if it had to. That’s enough to make me happy, for the time being, and the time was. The time coming would be upset with it, though.