Mestee Blogger

Yesterday, I got out of work at 3:00, only to discover that warm and sunny day had been going on without me. I decided to make the most of it and head to the driving range to hit some golf balls, especially because I had heard that this nice weather would be gone by the time the weekend rolled around. Going to the range by myself proved to be a pretty relaxing activity, despite the 25 other guys swinging clubs on either side of me (and a bunch of 20-something girls -- a benefit not usually enjoyed while golfing). Before I got started, I had to perform the unpleasant task familiar to all left-handed golfers: turning around the very heavy rubber and turf mat so that the tees were on the left. The added challenge is to do this quietly, so as not to become "that guy" who manages to simultaneously distract 50 golfers at once. Once I settled in, I became unsettled again, as it appeared that the petite Asian man who was facing me (another lefty hazard) was pausing to watch me swing every time. Of course, I could not tell this for sure, since he was complimenting his argyle sweater vest, khakis, and white visor with a pair of David Duval shades. Just the thought of it was pretty distracting though, so I shanked my way through the first third of the bucket. After telling Brendan about this when I got home, he said I should have just told the guy to cut it out, which had crossed my mind at the time. I then realized how ridiculous that would have seemed, requesting that he "stop looking at me" when I was swinging.

After I was done, I got a call from my cousin Sean, who's living in Georgia now. He hurt his ankle in Iraq, and the doctor decided he needed to go back to the States for surgery. He's still on crutches and seems pretty bored with his new daily routine of reading and watching ESPN.

"So, are you psyched to be home?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said,"I miss my guys over there, but it's nice not getting shot at every day."

This was another glaring reminder that, after high school, our lives have veered in completely different directions. We were born two weeks apart and lived somewhat parallel lives through our first 18 years: enjoying a suburban lifestyle, occupying most of our free time playing sports, and even making the similar mistake of joining the high school marching band during freshman year. Then, he went to Norwich University (a private military academy) to get his butt kicked for four years, while I went to UNH for ice cream socials, broom hockey, and beach parties. We usually just see each other during the holidays, so I asked what had prompted the call.

"I was looking on iTunes," Sean explained, "and I saw that there was a new Vince Neil song. Then I remembered when we were in second grade and you brought over a heavy metal magazine and told me all about this great new band named Motley Crue."

Ah, yes. Motley Crue. I became a fan of theirs at a time when my musical tastes were largely inherited from my rocker-chick babysitter Heather, who had enlightened me in the ways of Ratt, Cinderella, and Twisted Sister. It was also around the time that I was paralyzed with fear at the sight of Darth Vader, to the point that I refused to go into Sean's room by myself, for fear that (embarrassing confession #329) his Darth Vader toy caddy would come to life and destroy me. Perhaps this was the earliest sign that, of the two of us, I would not be the one joining the military. I hear they frown upon soldiers with fear of plastic toys.

If you didn't watch the Celtics game last night, perhaps you can experience the panic attack second hand.
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