One Little Bench

empty bench overlooking water

At the writing of this, I am sitting on my lanai drinking an espresso, and I’m staring at a bench.

It’s a sweet little metal bench in a patch of shade, overlooking the stables and sitting alongside the heated spa pool. As far as I can tell no one has sat in it during my entire stay, and unlike the garden lunch tables, the pool loungers and the deck chaises, this little bench doesn’t seem to be up for grabs. No one is vying for it, there’s no line to wait in to sit in it, and you don’t have to put your name on a list to experience what it’s like.

My kind of bench.

I intend to sit in it before I leave, just to see what the property looks like from the perspective of that little unassuming bench.  

(Note: That little bench allowed me to see the equestrian staff grooming the horses. The spa guests lolling by the outdoor pool. The bridesmaid party enjoying lunch.)

On Friday morning, I’ll be lolling around the mahogany-paneled library in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in front of the fireplace. I want to sit in the library before I get on the road. The library has been, believe it or not, filled since my arrival with heads of state and owners of major corporations. Serious brandy-nursing gray-haired older men in expensive riding boots have been commandeering it all week, discussing hedge funds and illiquid assets in their serious voices. But I’m hoping that at 7:00 a.m. it will be relatively empty, and I can enjoy that room.

I want to see what they see.

I have sat in many chairs during my week here- backyard deck chairs, kitchen counter stools, a leather sectional. A heated stone chair in the spa, a pool lounger, and so many Adirondack chairs at so many wineries and breweries that I’ve lost count. Metal chairs surrounding a trattoria table, linen-covered chairs in an upscale lunch spot, and tree-stump chairs at an outside wine-tasting venue.

But it has been the out of the way chairs scattered about the property that have piqued my interest the most. When I travel, I don’t scout out these sitting areas on properties and in airports for comfort, I scout them out for perspective. To see if they offer a view of the property I may not have enjoyed yet. I bring my writing notebook, sit in those areas, and jot down things that occur to me as I consider the view.

Just like chairs, travel allows me to see a view of the world outside my own familiar line of sight. By Friday I will have been here for only five days, but I have reached peace and closure on things that were troubling me. Things that seemed so important to me on Monday don’t now. Issues that were keeping me from falling asleep easily aren’t now. Because the perspective of travel has once again solved my problems. And even if the perceived solution is only temporary, it doesn’t matter. Even if the same problems smack me in the face the second I walk in the door, the perspective I bring back will not leave me. Much like the French lavender soap I purchased from the spa will upon arrival home remind me of my enjoyable spa treatment, so will the perspective I gained from my different seating areas stay with me as well.

I try not to always travel to destinations where people are similar to me, because I like to see myself through different eyes. It’s like always looking in the same mirrors at home. You look in the bathroom mirror, then the full-length mirror in your room. Not bad, you think. You look in the gym mirror, the one in your favorite pub, and think, Not bad. You end the day and go to bed thinking you know what you look like. But when you travel, there is a whole new set of mirrors in which your reflection reminds you:

You’re not who you think you are, honey. Especially not in this light.

It can be tricky to deliberately choose to see yourself differently. But it’s important to remember what a small part of this vast world one person is. What we do matters, and the space we take up is significant, yes. But in the scheme of things, travel reminds us that we have many different reflections, and that there are so many different views.

Sometimes all it takes is one little bench. So see you on the flip side.

Work Your Name

This is my workout today. You’re using your full name, that’s the workout! Suggestions on form or upping your game are in parentheses!

A: Min Full Plank (Note: back must be flat with hips level)

B: 20 Push-Ups (with your elbows in)

C: 20 Jumping Jacks (how high can you jump 20 times?)

D: 15 Sit-ups (can you press a weight above your head?)

E: 10 Burpees (with push-up and tuck jump?)

F: 20 Russian Twists (can you touch down with a kettlebell?)

G: 1 Minute Wall-Sit (with back not touching wall?)

H: 1 Minute Half-Plank (Back straight, please!)

I: 20 Squats (with kettlebell in front?)

J: 20 Kettlebell Swings (throw behind and forwards, not up and down)

K: 15 Box Jumps (with burpee?)

L: 30 Squats (sumo, or sit-style?)

M: 40 Second Dead-Hang (with arms locked at 45 degrees?)

N: 10 Sit-Ups (to tuck jump?)

O: 1 Minute L-Sit (back must contact ground)

P: Trunk Rotations (do not twist spine)

Q: 20 Alt Lunges (front knee does not pass front toe)

R: 20 Kettlebell Snatches (one hand and alt)

S: 1 Minute Full Plank (planchette is French for little plank- from the plank position move your hands under your hips)

T: 20 Push-Ups (with shoulder shrug?)

U: 1 Minute Ball Squats (aim for full-range of motion)

V: 20 Ball Passes (lie on back and pass the ball from your hands to your feet)

W: 1 Minute Superman (expand abdomen)

X: 20 Push-Ups (with feet elevated?)

Y: 20 Ice-Skaters (make sure knees stay aligned with foot)

Z: I’s,Y’s and T’s, 15 Each Side (look in a mirror for the l, y, and t shape).

Like a Rock

Sitting with friends in the sun of a patio deck having drinks, enjoying the fire, wondering what wondrous thing transpired to keep us together for two-thirds of our lives, and pretty freaking grateful for it.

Forty years now
Where’d they go?
Forty years
I don’t know
I sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they’ve gone

Gaming

I’ve been watching boys play video games my whole life. My brothers, my high school and college friends, and now my sons. And I have never, not once in my life, heard any girl ask a boy if she can play. Not once.

You’d think at least once I’d have overheard a young lady ask my brothers, my friends or my sons for a turn at the console, right? In 55 years, at least once? Especially considering all of the strong, independent women I have floating through my house? Women who are not afraid to be who they are, and ask for what they want? Nope. But I have heard them say the following, as they watch men scream and celebrate during their video game marathons.

How can you play this for hours?

Are you almost done?

Can we go do something fun now?

(Reader note: Don’t get mad at me, ladies. I’m sure you occasionally enjoy video games. And even if you don’t, of course there are women who enjoy, excel at and play video games. I am not suggesting otherwise).

According to Greta Anderson in an Inside Higher Ed article, video games, especially Esports, are excessively male-dominated, and include a gender gap that women simply can’t transcend. 88-percent of scholarships for varsity college Esports programs are awarded to male students. Women simply are not applying for these scholarships, says Inside Higher Ed. An AP report suggests that despite 41 percent of gamers being women, the disparities between male and female students on college rosters for Esports could create legal problems for institutions under Title IX. Women could be missing out on important STEM opportunities.

Ruh-roh.

So I did some rudimentary research:

  • Stanford University reports that the part of the brain that generates rewarding feelings is more activated in men than women during video game play, and that men are 2-3 times more likely to get hooked.
  • CNN reports that the same neural circuitry that plays a role in drug and alcohol addiction is twice as likely in men than women. This is the same circuitry that lights up like Times Square when men play video games.
  • Silicon Republic reports that while men are not BETTER than women at video games, they are more interested in spending time playing them.
  • The Sydney Morning Herald reports that video gaming satisfies a deep carnal desire for the male sense of camaraderie and social connection, the same desire that is satisfied through sports and golf and fishing and hunting.

So men just like video games more. What’s the big deal about that? And am I hearing correctly? Is Inside Higher Ed suggesting that female college students should enjoy video games more than they do. Isn’t that sexist? Suggesting that these smart accomplished women don’t know what they want? That they are afraid to ask for what they want? That they are pretending to do something other than what they want to do?

You know why males get 88 percent of Esports scholarships? Because they apply for them. You know why more women don’t get these scholarships? Because most women don’t apply for them. Statistics show that most women don’t want to play video games for achievement purposes.

Simple statistics. But for now the sun is rising, and there is fun to be had. So in the famous words of Forrest Gump:

That’s all I have to say about that.

The Bottom Line

Time to address the elephant in the room. But please get comfortable, because this isn’t a sweet baby Ellie with pink ears. This is a formidable full-grown Asiatic bull elephant named Mojumba that charges you on an African safari.

This blog is as much cathartic for me as it is (hopefully) entertaining for you. And I find that when you let a thing fester and boil, it has the tendency to become infected. I used to share the following quote with my students. The identity of the author is buried in my old teaching resources, so I can’t remember who said it, and it is too obscure to find online. But it went something like this:

Sarcasm in language is like a dull-edged knife a neophyte uses to lance an infected boil. He hacks away at the boil ineffectively, causing more pain and infection for the sufferer, and providing little to no relief. Satire is a physician’s sharp scalpel- with one slice, he can diffuse the infection without unnecessary pain. In fact, the patient is barely even aware that the boil has been lanced, so clean and sharp was the slice.

Dr. Oves at your service.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are war, famine, pestilence and death. The Four Horsemen of Journalism are politics, religion, sex and money. Since I started this blog in October, I have, in some form, addressed the first three. Time for the fourth.

Money. Money, money, money. You’re already uncomfortable, aren’t you? Yeah, discussion of money has that effect on people. But you just sit back, have a cup of coffee or a drink, and relax. I’ll take it from here.

(Mary limbers up, does some deep-knee bends, stretches her quads)

So money. When you are married, you both have money. Whether you make money together or separately, it’s both yours. You spend it together. You invest it together. You know what you both have. Maybe it was yours to begin with, maybe it was your spouse’s, but now you share it. This is a wonderful perk of marriage, among many others, because it involves trust. Money is not any kind of barrier in propelling your relationship forward or backward. Even if you argue about it, it still belongs to both of you. In a marriage, money is just…money.

(I’m sure there are exceptions, but I think this is mostly accurate considering my reading demographic).

As a widow, money becomes something entirely different. I was completely unprepared when I entered the dating scene to discover that men tend to draw only one of two conclusions about widows my age: we are rich, looking to fund a boy toy. Or we are penniless, seeking a rich benefactor.

(Disproving both stereotypes has exhausted me to my core. Dating has been a disaster. I officially give up).

Now gird your loins, because Mojumba just bellowed. Because I wonder if a widow exists who manages to transcend those stereotypes?

Hm. Maybe a widow who has been working since the age of sixteen?

Who taught high school English for thirty years since the age of 22 while also teaching college courses at night, just to get her foot in the door at the college level?

Whose little boys missed her all day and then would cry when she left to teach night classes, because they wanted her to stay home to read books and snuggle?

Who spent entire weekends at the library, planning lessons?

Who watched stay-at-home mothers gab on the phone, play on Facebook, go out to lunch and walk the boardwalk every day, while she spent her days inside a small, cramped classroom teaching Shakespeare and loving every minute of it?

Who never understood stay-at-home mothers, women who seemed content to live off of their husband’s salaries?

Who was so intent on being a writer, that while she watched others socialize and sit on the beach and party and travel, she wrote for local papers, blogged on websites, and submitted op-eds, all just to make a name for herself in journalism?

Who once held six jobs at once while raising her children? Who is ultra-ambitious and independent? Who has always been wise about investing? Who still works at things she loves and now can actually enjoy the fruits of her labor?

I wonder if there are any widows like that. She sounds familiar.

She is me.

But sadly, being that the online dating world is cloaked in distrust, men don’t trust the women, and the women don’t trust the men. An independent savvy widow is not a “catch,” she is under scrutiny. She’s too good to be true, they figure, so she can’t be true. Men are so busy researching her income, mortgage, employment and cash holdings to really get to know her. If it wasn’t so insulting, it would be funny.

I take it back, it’s funny. I go on these dates, and I’m waiting for the day when a guy asks for a copy of my stock portfolio before he buys me a drink.

(I speak, of course, as a woman on the dating scene. I concede that the online scrutiny is no easier for men, and sometimes worse).

I miss dating in my 20’s. This is how complicated it got:

Boy: I think you’re hot.

Girl: I think you’re hot, too.

Boy: I’m kinda broke.

Girl: Me, too.

Boy: Want to date, then get married and make babies and money together?

Girl: Hell ya!

Boy: Let’s gooooooooo!!!

I want to have the same conversation with a guy my age:

Guy: I think you’re hot.

Me: I think you’re hot, too.

Guy: I have some money.

Me: I have some, too.

Guy: Want to date, then get married and make grandbabies and money together?

Me: Hell ya!

Guy: Let’s gooooooooo!!!

If only it were that easy.

And while it’s funny, I find it sad. I feel like whining, so indulge me. I’ve worked so goddamned hard on me. I’ve sacrificed a lot to get where I am. I’ve worked on my education, my career, my family, my fitness. Imagine a man ignoring my assets, only to define me by my…well, assets.

Someone recently had the temerity to ask me how I have the money to travel so much. I felt like Jack Dawson at the dinner scene in “Titanic”:

Companion: And how is it you have means to travel, Mary?

Me: Well, I work my way from place-to-place. You know, tramp steamers and such.

C: And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?

Me: Well, yes sir, I do. I’ve got everything I need right here with me. I’ve got the air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper. I love waking up in the morning not knowing what’s going to happen or who I’m going to meet. Just the other night I was sleeping under the Longport Bridge. Now here I am, on the greatest deck in the area, having a beer with you.

This post is not a criminalization of wealth. Quite the contrary. The quest for riches is a noble quest, one during which you become more of who you truly are. I have nothing against money, or men with money. I love money. Money offers freedom and options. Money helps one thrive. Money helps the less fortunate. Money is a thing.

But it’s not everything. And TBH, while it’s true I’m not looking for a man to fund my lifestyle, I’m also not looking to fund anyone else’s, either. A man has to bring something to the table.

Cuz trust me when I say I ain’t afraid to eat alone.

My friend is right, I need to chill. I need a drink. Or twelve.

So excuse me while I go have that drink. I’m going to enjoy my vacation here at my friend’s home and then play around at her fancy resort. And let it be said that I’m grateful for what I have, I have what I need, I can afford what I want, but I don’t need anything that I don’t already have.

Except sex. Yeah, I need that.

Empty Streets

Today’s post was supposed to deal with the book Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. I planned to delve into his experiences during the Holocaust and try my best to apply those experiences to modern human helplessness. Deep stuff. I taught these theories for years.

But the glorious weather yesterday demanded I avoid it. Frankl’s book is partly (but not wholly) about his experiences in concentration camps, and it was just too beautiful of a day to tackle such a complex subject. I once wrote an op-ed for the Philadelphia Inquirer about Holocaust Remembrance Day, and the hate mail I received was truly scary. Usually I like hate mail. But not that kind.

I simply wasn’t up to that scrutiny yesterday, so I’ll get that post to you another time. I’m on vacation next week, and since I plan to be inebriated the entire week (jk), daily posts will be quick and light. Oh, and my diagnostics are the highest they’ve been since I started the blog so thank you to my now MANY THOUSANDS of readers. I’ll keep posting, you keep reading and commenting.

It was a lovely quiet week. With much of the island population away in Florida, Hatteras and assorted warm islands, I sat under my crepe myrtle tree and actually thought I could see the buds open. I loved having Easter Sunday in my home, and having brunch and then golfing with my sons. It’s not easy getting them to myself for even a few hours, and it required months of preparation. But I pulled it off. My bunnies, squirrels and ducks visited me daily, and are starting to look a little plump around their mid-sections. I burned candles, drank tea, and watched the sun come in at different angles each day.

Just a lovely week. I spent a lot of time out on my patio, enjoying the spring waking-up noises and smells of the island, many that reminded me of my childhood. The sound of lawnmowers and the smell of fresh-cut grass. Basketballs bouncing and dogs barking. The smell of grills, hot dogs and fried onions. Construction saws buzzing, a water hose hitting the exterior of a car, and skateboard wheels hitting the pavement. With so many people away, the sounds and smells colliding with the quiet of the streets was palpable.

Next week I’ll be posting about the much-criticized and male-dominated E-Sports programs (am I the only one that enjoys being male-dominated?), Suzie Orman, and other stuff that hopefully will happen to me on vacation. I have a long drive there and back, no flying for me this time, so I’ll have plenty of twisted thoughts to share.

Have a great weekend.

Future Flex

Yesterday was World Health Day. And forgive the already tired cliché, but these be strange times we livin’ in.

I had a meeting with a former colleague on the St. Joseph’s University campus, so on the way home I decided to leave the expressway and pop into this indie bookstore to say hi to the store manager. A friend for years, she and I had been communicating about a volunteer opportunity the store was offering to help young children with their writing skills. I figured since I was in the area, I would say a quick hello. As we excitedly discussed the opportunity, I saw her brow furrow.

“Oh, wait, Mary, did you finish filling out your application?”

“Well, not yet, I figured I’d come in in person.”

She paused. “Wow, that’s so nice, but you have to finish filling out the application first, you know, with your resume and everything.”

“Even if I’m here in person?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

I paused this time. “So you want me to drive an hour home to sit at my computer, upload a resume, then drive an hour back tomorrow? When I could answer questions now, in person?”

She smiled patiently, well-acquainted with my bullshit. “I know, it seems counter-productive. But that’s the way the boss wants it.”

Talk about cancel culture. In-person ain’t no thing. The only way people want to meet is through the computer and through the fucking phone. Strange.

After I bid her goodbye and promised to finish my paperwork online, I grabbed a coffee and perused her book wall. My eyes glossed over the titles, and as I moved perambulatorily from left to right in a java-infused book trance, my brain sent me a signal…

Wait.

I froze. There’s something…

I backed up. Something was strange. Amiss. What was it? I moved back and started again. Ah, yes, I thought.. There it is.

Here are the titles of the current best-selling non-fiction books on sale across the country and I am not making any of these up:

  • The New Normal- A Roadmap to Resilience
  • What Can I Do?
  • Superman’s Not Coming
  • How to Avoid a Climate Disaster
  • Gory Details
  • The Disordered Cosmos
  • The Plague Cycle
  • The End of Everything
  • The New Climate War
  • The Apocalypse Factory
  • What is Life?
  • Make America Healthy Again
  • How to Argue with a Racist
  • The Fragile Earth
  • COVID
  • Post-Corona
  • 2030
  • Never Enough
  • The Price You Pay for College
  • Die with Zero
  • The New Great Depression
  • Fear is a Choice

I flipped a few over to see if they came with a prescription for Zoloft. A straight-edged razor. Maybe a bundled deal of therapy appointments. Perhaps a cameo on Dr. Phil. What would be the name of the show?

Wednesday:  Former Reader Who Entered Bookstore in a Happy Place Leaves in an Existential Panic

Watch her in today’s episode as she angrily confronts doomsday authors:

“Tell you the truth, Phil, I’m thinking of suing! They ruined my whole day!”

I’m not a psychologist or a sociologist, so I wouldn’t presume to analyze the current culture of fear that seems to hover over our country. I say “our country” because since I don’t live in other countries, I can’t speak for other countries. I live only here. Maybe fearmongering isn’t as prevalent in say, Greece, as it is here. Or maybe it’s worse, what do I know? I speak only as an American when I say:

What. The. Actual. Fuck. How long have I been asleep? What is everyone so afraid of?

People taking bike rides in the beautiful spring fresh air while wearing masks? People driving alone in their cars while wearing masks? People afraid to send their children to school? People afraid to voice a dissenting opinion at work for fear of castigation? People afraid of doorknobs, airplanes, family gatherings? People afraid of living? People afraid of each other?  

And now we’re expected to be afraid of the year two-thousand fucking thirty? Seriously? 2030? We’re not promised year 2030. When were we ever promised 2030? We’re not promised tomorrow. We’re not even promised ten minutes from now. How egotistical it is to assume we will ever have any knowledge at all of 2030. I don’t even know what I am having for dinner. DJ hasn’t even teed off yet at Augusta (although he may have by the time you read this).

Now I’m supposed to be worried about year 2030? Yeah, fuck that.

Take my advice. Or ignore it, if you like. I am just here to say that you can save yourself a lot of time and agony by ignoring all of those titles above and reading just one: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. It will provide all the answers you seek about the meaning of life, the concept of fear and the lack of control we feel in an uncontrolled environment. I will discuss his book and its theories in tomorrow’s post. Here’s an early quote by Frankl:

Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation. You cannot control what happens to you in life, but you can always control what you will feel and do about what happens to you.

Here are my responses to some of the titles above:

  • What is going on will never, ever, ever, not in a million lifetimes, be my “new normal.” The media can write it, print it, publish it, splash it across t-shirts, put it in commercials and have political pundits utter it over and over and over, but it will never be my “new normal.” If it’s yours, great. I respect that. But it’s not mine.
  • What can you do, the author of that book asks? Well, you can wake up. Take a deep breath. Count your blessings. Feel the sun on your face. Kiss your dog, your kids and your grandkids. Be present in the moment. That’s the most any of us can do.
  • Post-Corona is me, passed out on my patio after drinking three beers on the boat on a 90- degree day.
  • The author of Fear is a Choice is right. Fear is a choice. So is happiness. That’s what I choose.

X-Factor

So, the X-Factor? That enigmatic thing that attracts one person to another? Yeah, I hope this post comes out right. I can’t seem to say what I want to say- that people are attracted to other people for reasons that are sometimes not visible to the naked eye. That the X-Factor is enigmatic, and while it can be based on someone’s hands, or ass, or eyes, or shoulders, or lips, it doesn’t have to be. That some people are so kind, or funny, or successful, or generous, that the minute you meet them, their inner beauty shines through the outer, and all you see is…

Beauty.

Wait, this sounds familiar…

Oh, it’s the plot line of “Shallow Hal.” Whattya want from me, it’s a complex subject, this theme of loving and desiring someone for their inner smoldering rather than their outer, even if their outer is as de-lovely as their inner. Transcribing my thoughts on this subject into relatable terms is not coming easily to me. Says Victoria Erickson:

Writing is ultimately

a form of movement.

Moving stagnant energy,

moving grief,

moving your arms

and hands,

moving forward,

moving your heart,

moving others,

moving back

into truth

and alignment.

Yesiree.

I was volunteering at a charity event after college and there was this guy, this older gray-haired well-built charismatic guy, zipping around and socializing with everyone. He was like a celebrity, people approaching him, shaking his hand, and shooting the shit with him. He had this great laugh, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of his beautiful smile and white teeth. I mean, he was gorgeous. Oh, and those hands. You know how I like hands. But there was something else about him, just this tantalizing warmth and strength and masculinity that drew me in like a beacon. I felt myself moving towards him, and even though I didn’t know what I was going to say, I figured it would come to me. As I approached him, he flashed those pearly whites at me and said, “Good morning.” Just as I opened my mouth to speak, his beautiful wife appeared behind him to push him in his wheelchair to the podium for his speech. Oh, I didn’t mention he was in a wheelchair? I barely noticed it that day myself.

X-Factor.

I tell this story simply to illustrate the point that attraction can happen between anyone. I freely admit that I like strong men, formidable men. Protectors, warriors, gladiators. Soldiers, fighters, battlers, scrappers. I don’t like timidity. Not timidity of values, not timidity of speech, not timidity of heart or spirit. If someone is into me, I expect to fucking know it. Not have to guess it.

Strong men. Men with strength of body, face, mind, heart, spirit, generosity. Strength of voice and character and intimacy and gaze and humor. Strength of fatherhood and career and courage and values. Strength of self and commitment and joy in the moment and hope in the future. Strength of gratitude and bliss.

Vibe. Lifeforce. Attraction.

X-Factor.

I see men with prosthetic legs at the gym, on the beach, even doing landscaping, and I admit, I’m drawn to their strength. Because I was married to a man with a prosthetic leg, and I understand the mental fortitude it takes for someone to wake up in the morning and strap that thing on. To ignore the desire to stay in bed, and not have to deal with the rubbing, the sores, the sweat, the aching, the sometimes God-awful defeat of it.

But he did it. He got up, every day, strapped that thing on and went to work. He played golf and basketball in it, walked the dog in it, and attended all of his sons’ sporting events in it. He was no saint, but he made the best of every day. Sometimes his best was rough. But it was still his best.

I guess that’s why I am so baffled by the ungrateful. The way I figure it, anyone who can swing his legs over his bed and plop his two feet onto the ground and be up for the day in thirty seconds should, at the very least, be grateful for that. But so few are. It baffles me.

But no judgment here- gratitude is relative, because everyone learns in his or her own time, and some people never learn at all. After all, the disabled can be as bitter and joyless as the next guy. It’s all about what you have inside to begin with, or sometimes, what you achieve on your journey. Lieutenant Dan was not very centered when he first lost his legs, was he? But he eventually got there, with a little help from the Apple Corporation.

I’ve majorly digressed.

So the X-Factor has little to do with looks, although it can. It has little to do with legs, although it can. It has little to do with asses, pecs, and muscles, although it can. It has little to do with wholeness of body, but rather wholeness of soul. Of heart and spirit. Of gratitude and lifeforce and joy and service and strength.

That is the X-Factor. Mine, at least.

Amen Corner

It’s Masters week, and here are some stats:

Dustin Johnson, the defending champion, is the 8-1 favorite. Bryson DeChambeau is second favorite at 9-1, and Justin Thomas and Jon Rahm both come in as the third and fourth favorites at 11-1. But don’t go making any predictions until you see who Sal Johnson is backing.

Sal Johnson is a golf stat expert and media legend who knows the players and how they fit each course. Unfortunately for Bryson, Johnson doesn’t give DeChambeau too much hope this coming week, even though the newcomer leads the pack in driving distance. Johnson says Bryson hasn’t learned to dial it back the way he will need to at Augusta, and that his accuracy will be a major obstacle on this course. Even Bryson’s putting would need to be otherworldly to contend this week. Johnson has his eye on Jordan Spieth, who plays well at Augusta and whose driving has been steady as of late. And Johnson also likes where Scottie Scheffler’s play is right now.

If you want more predictions from Sal Johnson, it looks like you need to click on a link and pay. But my predictions are free, and even though they are based on practically no golf knowledge whatsoever, let’s have some fun:

My Fantasy Winner: Fred Couples.

My favorite golfer of all time, 61-year old Couples won at Augusta in 1992 and is playing in his 36th Masters this year. Wouldn’t it be something if he could outlast all of these young bucks? Doubtful, but one can dream. I just can’t wait to see him walk down that fairway.

My Crush Winner: Lee Westwood

The gorgeous ageless Lee Westwood is making his 20th start at the Masters this year, and has finished in the top ten six times. He is coming off a hard fought second-place March finish at Sawgrass, so maybe Augusta will be his redemption song? We’ll see. And maybe Helen will bring him some luck on the bag.

My Pragmatic Winner: Rory McIlroy

C’mon Ror! You can do it! We want you to do it! Just do it! The Masters is the only one of the four majors that McIlroy has never won, and I really want to see him get that green jacket so he can go to that dinner. He deserves it. He’s earned it. Just give it to him, already. I’m gunning for Rory all the way.

My Dark Horse Winner: Tommy Fleetwood

There’s just something about this 30-year old Englishman. No one should count him out of anything, and he’s just a pleasure to watch.

My Maternal Urge Winner: Bryson DeChambeau

Watching Bryson golf and curse lightly and mildly and then smile arrogantly is like watching my sons up there. I would be so proud of him if he managed to control his accuracy and put low numbers on the board. And I’d love to see what dinner he would choose next year.

My Hidden Mic Winner: Jordan Spieth

Jordan won in 2015, and he just had a big win on Sunday at the Valero Texas Open- Spieth is on fire. He’s also my favorite player to listen to on hidden mic. I’ll be watching the Masters on the off chance that I can hear him utter, just once, his famous “I’m going to try something stupid here” line. Then I can watch him blast it out of the woods, around a tree, through the cockpit of an airplane, around The Crow’s Nest, only to roll gently three inches away from the hole.

My Statistical Winner: Dustin Johnson

My current favorite golfer to watch and defending champion Dustin Johnson. He of the beautiful wife and in-law royalty, he of the 2020 20-under par 268, the lowest score in tournament history. Been missing some cuts, ay DJ? Well, get your shit together, because Augusta is no place for reticence or Cigar Aficionado throwback cover shoots. We’re watching this week to see the Iceman go balls out like he did last year. Good luck, we love you.

My Final Predicted Winner: Jordan Spieth

I think he’s going to do it. He’s just playing so well with oodles of confidence going in, especially with this Valero win under his belt. And if you look closely, you can see the ominous Rambo-esque threat in his eyes: Amen Corner, I’m comin’. I’m comin’ FOR YOU. And I’m not playing for no second-place finish.

Dick Moves

Don’t drive angry. Don’t drive angry. Phil Connors, “Groundhog Day”

I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this post isn’t what you think it’s about. Here, I’ll use the phrase incorrectly:

Watching someone you hate dance at a wedding: “Man, will you look at that dick move.”

Complimenting your partner’s sexual prowess: “I find it admirable the way you make that dick move.”

Kicking a younger sibling out of your spot at the Thanksgiving table: “Yo, dick, move.”

Asking your cousin Richard to move up in the security line at the airport: “Dick. Move.”

My meaning is more the following:

Someone cuts me off in traffic: “Well, that was a dick move.” Right. “Dick” as an adjective, and “move” as a noun.

As the weather continues to get milder and traffic gnarlier, Dick Moves will become more and more frequent. And I don’t just mean dick moves perpetrated on me, but also to my perpetrating dick moves on others. The holiday weekend traffic caused me to ruminate once again on the unfortunate fact that as opposed to my steady day-to-day existence, when I get into my car I turn into a feral boar, an insufferable fool, a flaccid piece of excrement.

This makes me sad. No kidding. Why is this the one aspect of my personality that I can’t seem to control? Why do I get so impatient and arrogant when I drive? I mean, yesterday I beeped at a car in front of me because he didn’t move fast enough when the light turned green. Here is @HenpeckedHal on Instagram berating this well-known Dick Move.

“Today my carelessness made someone late for work. He could lose his job, his home. Sir, if you’re reading this, I can’t replace the extra .74 seconds you sat at that green light, but your honk–still echoing in my soul–serves as a harsh reminder that my actions have consequences.”

Touche.

Top Driving Dick Moves:

  1. The Early A.M. Look and Go: You’re driving to work at 6:00 a.m. and you are the only car on the road. You are moving along nicely when suddenly you sense danger- a car is creeping up on a side street and the driver is looking towards you to see if it’s clear to go. They see you and know it’s not clear to go, but they pull in front of you anyway, forcing you to slam on your brakes. They then proceed to drive in front of you at an excruciating 12 m.p.h. (Man, that was a dick move).
  • The Because-Fuck-You-That’s-Why: Someone is driving slowly in front of you, so you tailgate him and then make a gesture of impatience through your windshield. You’re sure this will make him see the error of his ways and force him reevaluate his existence. It doesn’t. In retaliation for the gesture, he drives even slower until you can’t take it anymore and you are forced to turn down a different street to get away from him. He gives you the finger as you veer off, and you know you deserve it. You hang your head and take it like the piece of shit that you are (Man, that was a dick move).
  • The Highway to Hell: You pass someone on the highway who is driving only slightly slower than you. You pass them at an incredibly high rate of speed with an imperious glance thrown in their direction as you pass. You now only have two choices: to sustain that speed and risk getting pulled over, or to slow down and look like a douche. You decide to risk the speed, but you manage to go only slightly faster than them. You feel it necessary to keep them in your sights in the rearview mirror, to make sure your arrogance did not go to waste. When you exit, they are only one car length behind you. They think you are a dick, and you know they’re right. You hope that when you reach the end of your life, you can look back at your decision and say, “Yes, by God, it was worth it.” (Man, what a dick move).
  • The Serpentine Hustle: You are doing errands in town, and you get behind someone slow. You can tell that they are going to be trouble, so you deliberately turn down a side street so as to avoid them. You drive hither and thither, making lefts and rights, going down alleys and through parking lots, proud of your craftiness and ability to save time. You find yourself with a self-satisfied smile at a red light, the smile fading as you watch them sail freely through the green. They laugh and point at you as they go by. You deserve that, too. (That is such a dick move).
  • The Shame Game: The car in front of you stops dead in the middle of the street for no reason. You don’t have time for this. Your life is important. You slowly begin to go around him, but as you do, you suddenly slam on your brakes. You understand why he was stopped. He was letting a special bus unload a small handicapped child. He was letting a senior citizen with a walker cross the street slowly and safely. He was letting Mr. and Mrs. Duck cross with their babies. He was letting two elementary school children ride their bikes through. He had stopped for a loose dog on the shoulder. But now you are stuck in the incoming lane next to him, your impatience a public spectacle, and your presence a traffic hazard. He looks at you. You look at him. He shakes his head, and you slowly nod.

Yep, you say silently to him. I know. A total dick move.