Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
- Bill Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
Tomorrow night, I will step into the car, and every passing mile marker will be as the footsteps of doom.
For tomorrow night we head to Illinois for Julie's bridal shower being hosted by her family. The ladies will be opening presents.
The men will be playing golf.
No longer will I be able to avoid the fell day where I must take to the links with men far better suited to such a game. No longer will I be able to flee past memories, like a child afraid to go back to sleep because he knows the circus clown in his dream is waiting to kill him.
No, I must face my fear. I have practiced for this day. Friends have prepared me as best they can, one of them going so far as to bestow upon me a set of clubs. Like Arthur receiving Excaliber I shall wield them in battle, making sure to turn over my wrists with every swing. I shall not fear men who hit the ball further than I, choosing instead to focus on hitting it straight. I shall unabashedly play the 4-iron off the tee. The woods and sands of the place shall remain a mystery, unexplored.
I'm ready for this. I am ready to play golf.
I am so dead.