from sour to sweet in a one word beat

Font: American Typewriter Light. I like this one best and choose it every time I write; whether the blog post displays it or not, this is the one I like to see on the page. Size: 14. I punch it up a bit from 12 so that I don’t squint and exaggerate my already furrowed brow. Yes, it is still there. Won’t go away no matter what I do. I can massage them, I can meditate and yoga breathe into my facial muscles to reduce the tension… but the brow remains furrowed.

I have just stopped halfway through my ornament wrapping ritual to unload ramblings in my head. I realize I have been in a funk. “Why?” I ask. I can’t even bring myself to write. “Well, you are acting withdrawn and are maintaining a somewhat bad mood. You are trying to find thoughts in your head to write about that are sweet and upbeat and quite frankly- your mood doesn’t match.” I answer myself. “And this is leaving you blank. This is leaving you sour.”

Sour. A term I seldom use to describe people, but when I do, it seems the most appropriate term in my head. It is almost like comparing a person’s attitude to a big carton of milk that has remained in the fridge too long. It just happens, sometimes without realizing it. No matter how much you want it to be fresh, it just isn’t. And, as a result of a long period of neglect, it makes you shrivel your nose, pierce your lips and want to discard it immediately. You shove it away… but the odor lingers. I came up with this term in England.

There was a European Tour event held at The Belfry outside of Birmingham, England; Nick played in the tournament. I walked along to watch him play golf in the miserable weather amidst a miserable gallery of people. (Some say to avoid ‘amidst’ and use ‘amid’… but I’m not going to because I think it’s prettier and I don’t like when people tell other people how to write and express themselves if it is not technically horrible and communicates effectively. So, I know it is older and a bit more formal, but it works and no one is grading me with a snobby red pen.) I wish I had a more pleasant way to describe my experience. And it was just an experience. I don’t have a solid opinion formed of the English people, as they are all different, just like everyone everywhere. (I also recognize stereotypes rarely come from nowhere… there is often truth in them when summing up a majority… but blanket statements aren’t fair either, when looking at individuals… complicated…) I do not want to be offensive with my description, but to be honest; they were absurdly offensive in general. I walked along with the gallery of spectators, mostly English men, outside of the ropes, with a perspective a bit different than the chumps beside me. Their behavior, language, attitudes in general were so extremely bitter that I used all of my energy to try and block them out and still enjoy my day.

The weather conditions were yucky. This I have considered the main attribution to the English disposition. It would be hard to remain cheery in weather that damp and drizzly and haggard. As a result, mold has formed. That is how I looked at the gentlemen I observed. Moldy, nasty, toxic.

The players were fighting the course and it was interesting to watch because it looked like pure hell. It looked like self-induced torture. Psychological warfare, mental turmoil, physical wrenching… this is what they choose for themselves when playing these courses in these conditions, and to add to all of that… there is the pressure of money. It is forcing one to be a gambling man, in a way. Your lively hood is hinged on the putt you stand over… better make it… but, no pressure. There is a lot of strategy and luck that make up the game of golf. As a person who was involved in athletics heavily for a large portion of my life, I can say with certainty that this particular sport of golf is different than most. For instance: A golfer may not be scared of physical harm as they stand over the golf ball, as a gymnast might be as they stand on a four inch beam of wood raised from the ground and throw their head at it, hoping their feet rotate properly and catch them before they become subject to gravity and are focused on the mercy of the laws of nature instead of their form and toe point. But, let’s take a different approach. A gymnast has the advantage of ritual, of reflex. A gymnast practices over and over and learns how to catch her body and fall. A gymnast learns why she makes mistakes and the reasons remain the same and obvious. A gymnast feels the mistake. When the foot lands crooked on the beam from the first flip, the second flip must either compensate for the misdirection, or if not- the beam is missed slightly (ouch!) or completely (yikes!) A golfer does not have this luxury. There are elements involved that are not within the control of the golfer, let alone man in general. After those elements are considered in their strategy, they adjust to make different shots happen. When they do this and happen to be an itty bitty bit off, such a slight difference that one can not even feel the mistake, it is magnified by physics and the ball bounces into a hazard… then, it is time to do it again and now they are thinking “What the hell happened just then? Maybe it was this. Maybe it was that.” They don’t know. They manipulate their swing slightly, they brew over the logic, and they are in a labyrinth of where nature (human and environmental) meets physics in the pursuit of perfection, where improbability reigns high. “Get the little white ball into that little hole on the other side of those trees and that water and do it in three tries.” It is sort-of crazy. Adding a bit of amusement to the objective, there is always the genius “supporter” that suggests genuinely to the golfer “Hey, why don’t you just go win! Just do it. That would solve your problems.” They recommend this as if it were a newsflash, a breaking revelation to the golfer, who never considered trying to win. It is always funny to watch and hear those people. As if every single guy on the course isn’t trying to win. So silly, is that statement. I look at the golf swing and it looks so beautiful, but so awkward. It isn’t really a natural motion. Hence, why golfers' backs are way screwed-up. It is indisputably harder than it looks. Just because you are athletic or coordinated doesn’t matter in golf. NFL guys can’t swing a golf club worth a toot… certainly isn’t because they lack athleticism! It’s just a different world, that sport of golf

Comparing sports isn’t a good idea. They are often so different with physical demands and psychological demands that there isn’t much common ground. Gymnastics can break your neck. Golf can commit you to the nearest insane asylum.

I have seen my husband- in Germany, actually- become so frustrated that he took the club he was twiddling with in the parking lot (as we waited for transportation after his round) and with a hand on each end, snap it completely in half. It was like watching him transform momentarily into the Incredible Hulk. He didn’t use his knee; he didn’t use anything but two hands and a lot of focused energy. And, I knew what he was doing- he wasn’t being insane; he was being an athlete. He was being a competitor. So, knowing this, my reaction wasn’t dismay or to tell him to stop. It was rather impressive, and I thought, “Damn! That was sort-of sexy!” I can’t imagine it is easy to pop an iron like it’s a toothpick.

So, anyway- we are in England and I am watching this show called golf go to battle with these ambitious golfers and I find it interesting. They are creating unusual and extremely difficult shots to make, with much help from the wind and rain and cold temperatures. Sloshing and splattering, it is a messy day. I am respecting this attempt and display of what is The Game of Golf, and also a visual metaphor for Life. The jokers beside me are not. They are rosey-cheeked, soft gentlemen with umbrellas and overcoats and scarves. Their speech comes through the slobber I see stringing from their top row of crooked teeth to their bottom row of crooked teeth. They are snarley and just, well, sour. That’s where I came up with the term sour people. They were negative, snarky, and rude. I found them unpleasant and miserable and wanted them to disappear so badly. I contemplated tripping them to watch their grimaces disappear in the mud, no doubt they would land face first as their hands were tucked tightly in their cozy coats. They were critical of every golfer they watched. They were downright nasty about it. As they laughed and used their established vocabulary to insult the golfers and their abilities (abilities which are spectacular, in fact)… I, and probably every other woman around, looked at them with pity and disgust. Here are men, standing outside of the ropes, cuddled into themselves so tightly as to avoid the weather they have put themselves in, to watch and berate other men- the men that are actually attempting something incredibly hard and doing so in front of others, exposing their mistakes and short comings. There is a huge difference between the man on the field battling out whatever obstacle he has chosen, getting dirty and possibly injured, to prove something to himself and the man who is only displaying his ability to ridicule.

Sour.

I use this outlet of writing to half express myself and to half discover myself. The ways I am feeling come out naturally and more accurately here than when I accomplish some mindless task that allows me to drift with thoughts. While I was wrapping ornaments I was thinking that I was hardly bearable for myself. I was thinking, “You aren’t quite so bad as the sour English spectators, but the memory is coming back for a reason! The word sour is cropping up, and it is for a reason, Beth. Figure it out.”

The only thing I figured then was that I haven’t been writing, which makes me grumpy, and I haven’t been writing because I haven’t been feeling true to myself, therefore, can’t write because it is an expression of individual truth. I want to be perky and positive and that isn’t all of what I’m feeling. The forcing of the perkiness is thrusting me farther into the back of the fridge, to sit and turn sour. I figure I am no good example, nor a productive use of time to read, for anyone if my words aren’t hopeful. But, in truth, there are plenty of things hovering over the world lately that aren’t a ray of light at all.

I think, “Who even wants to read anything you write? Why would anyone care?” And that is part of the problem. I don’t know that anyone would, much less should, but knowing that they could may affect my outlook, and then writing would be skewed toward what I would say to someone not simply about my world as seen through these eyes, writing as if no one is reading, which lends itself to honesty and the most frightening of all, raw exposure of self. That is the attempt here, to just write for the sake of writing and not be impressive or communicate anything but what lies in my spirit after interpreting my life.

I am trying to choose what I see and choose what I believe and focus on, but I am now realizing that one good expression of doubt isn’t as much harmful to my reality as it is- realistic. If I can release it and be done with it, then all is better. I can move on. I can do it privately, not involving another to transfer the moodiness, but I can release it and feel the difference and turn the emotion to a better one by letting it go- to no one and no where- just letting it go.

Now, is it tricky that I write about it? Yes. Because, this is how I let it go, but now, you are reading it… maybe (maybe not). So, don’t absorb my sour mood, absorb my newly rejuvenated outlook, okay? If you are there, let a smile come through the words, not a frown. Because my world is drastically different already just from changing my point of view, which is what I just did here in front of you. I, like in England, put myself in a spot of pleasure. I have, through these words, just walked inside The Belfry and found the sweet maids that smile and don’t scowl and they have just given me the most wonderful shortbread cookies I’ve ever tasted. I have entered my room that is purely English in décor and have changed into dry clothes and sip tea and enjoy these cookies that taste so remarkably delicious. I am now puzzled by this sweetness instead of that sourness I left. Looking at me and recognizing my surprise that the bland-looking cookie tastes so scrumptious, Nick gives me the answer to the question in my head.

“Butter.” he says.

Oh, yes, butter. I had nearly forgotten about it, since my infatuation with olive oil took hold. Although I do not believe it at all, I will use this gosh awful line to end this paragraph because it is too fitting and I am imagining my niece Katherine’s hilarious imitation of Paula Dean. “Everythang’s Better with Butter!” she would announce in the loudest, most forced southern accent her small body is capable of producing. Of course, that sentence is including diphthongs where one could never imagine a diphthong and no R is ever pronounced. It comes out as “uh” instead. We laugh at her every time she does it. And then, my laughter is quickly followed by ‘the creepy shivers’ as I visualize hunks of butter. (Barf.)

I really had no idea how I was going to get out of my funk and this has been not only revealing, but also humorous to me. I have just used a memory of a trip, that involved the sweet and the sour, to mentally walk my way out of one emotional place into another. Thank God, profusely, for this thing called the written word. It is an all encompassing, useful gift. It is sometimes my guidance and gently directs me where I wish to be. I feel I can go back downstairs now and finish my brainless task of wrapping ornaments without fear of meeting myself in that drifting thought process and not liking what I come upon.