pegged

There I was, minding my own business, and taking care of my physical health with a nice jog in the park. When I was whacked in the arm by a golf ball.

For those of you who have only been whackers but never whackees of golf balls, know this: it hurts. And it makes a really loud thwacking noise when, after flying several hundred yards through the air, it hits bare skin. In fact, the noise so startled me that at first I didn't realize I'd been hit -- I though something had dropped out of the trees above me, narrowly missing my head. Which in a way is what happened. The rubber-band-powered missle hit the back of my right arm, raising a healthy sting and transferring alarming amounts of kinetic energy to the fascia beneath the skin: muscle, tendon, sinew, and bone. Poor arm.

"Ow!" I exclaimed, turning to confront a woman whose Siberian husky I had just run past. I imagined I'd been pegged with one of those dog ball hurlers you see people carrying around who, like me, can't throw for shit. She in turn, looked behind her, where we both spied the dastardly little white ball bouncing happily into the brush. My eyes narrowed. Golfers.

Now, keep in mind that I myself tried to learn to swing a club a few weeks ago. I still have a twisted back to prove it. Golfing is not easy. However, if you can hit a golf ball 200 yards from the first tee of the Presidio Golf Course, then you should darn well learn to hit it straight. After my run I dropped into the club house to alert the management there to my newly found victim status. They were only mildly impressed, in spite of my red mark and my I'm-willing-to-be-reasonable demeanor. They took down my name on a General Liability form, which apparently can be cashed in for a doctor's visit. I suggested a free dinner voucher (they have what I've heard is a quite decent restaurant.) but the nice man said only the whacker of the ball could recompense me for my pain and suffering. Nuts.

So I've decided to recompense myself. With fresh squeezed orange juice, a long hot bath, and ice packets pressed to the afflicted area. There's something about my new-found victimhood that's quite invigorating. For instance, instead of slavishly cooking dinner last night, I treated myself to a nice Rainbow Salad at Burma Superstar, and a pot of mint tea at the Blue Danube where I read Joan Didion sucessfully for the first time. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Here is someone else who suffers without redemption; I've decided she's my hero. Suffering and all.