I returned to the gym this morning, and none of my limbs have fallen into disrepair during the couple of weeks away. Even while I was away I didn’t stop losing weight, thanks to sticking (for the most part) to the good eating habits, and the calories burned by the show. But the pace had slowed – it’ll be nice to push back up to tempo as I zap – wow, it’s sinking in as I type it – those last 3-ish pounds to reach the goal I set in January. Going beyond this goal now seems all-but-inevitable, and I’m excited about that.
This morning I was trying to get into my locker, but a guy had his stuff spread out on the bench in front of it. He excused himself and slid it out of the way, and I thanked him, and that courtesy (as so often happens) was all the permission he needed to start babbling.
“My liniment oil smell strong enough for you?” he started – which is one of those panicked pardon-me courtesies that, once spoken, can’t be left naked out there, like the person who said it. So he had to explain: “I normally don’t put on so much, but I need it. Playing golf today. Got to keep up with these kids and their fancy new drivers…”
Oh God, I’m thinking, the naked man wants to talk about golf. I have never played any version of golf that didn’t involve pixels or windmills, so I am at a loss to contribute to the conversation. I only need a few seconds to drop my toilet kit in the locker and grab my towel so I can skedaddle to the elliptical, but I’m going to have to say something.
Thankfully, he gave me time by going on at length about how young people put all their energy and money into sending monster shots down the fairway. Since he was obviously insecure about their greater relative strength, yet still fancied himself a savvier player, I figured that if I could come up with something that sounded vaguely-wise enough, and just said it with that tone of “executive confidence” I used to hear people use on phone calls all the time in my limo driving days, that even if it didn’t make sense, if it were sufficiently golf-ish it would pass muster.
So, with my towel in hand, I let him finish a phrase, and then flattered his years: “Well, the real work happens on the green.”
He brightened: “That’s right! I try and tell these boys that, and…”
All social obligations fulfilled, I walked swiftly away from his speech.
I think, when I’m at a loss for what to say, I’m just going to start saying “Well, the real work happens on the green“, and see how far that gets me.