I’M TRYING TO GET off to a strong start but the way the morning sun catches my computer screen is distracting in the extreme. Reluctantly, I push back from my desk and lower the shades. That takes care of the glare but leaves the room dark and dreary, so I return to the window and raise the shades several inches. When that feels too bright again, I split the difference…then lower them a quarter of an inch more…and then another…and then raise them a sliver.
In the process of all this fine-tuning, I can’t help but notice that my computer screen is filthy. If it weren’t so egregious I’d ignore it and plod on, but it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for years. In the back of a drawer, I find a never-opened container of iKlear Apple Polish. I spray some onto a shammy and wipe down the screen quadrant by quadrant until every last smudge, streak, and fingerprint has been eliminated.
What a difference! Now the computer screen sparkles and the scent of cleaning agent hangs in the air. At first, I find it pleasant and bracing, but rather than fading, it grows stronger and more pronounced and maybe even toxic, until in its own way it’s as distracting as the glare or the dust. I crack the windows, then put on a sweater against the chill and get back to work. The sweater is plenty warm. Too warm, maybe, and bulky and cumbersome. I feel like I can barely move my arms. A thinner sweater is not warm enough and a third itchy so I go back to the thin one and wear a blazer over it. Perfect.
Did I mention I’m writing a book? Sarah’s reaction to my tattoo was more than I had hoped for, and Noah thinks it’s kind of cool too, but the problem with tattoos is that it’s hard to build a life around them and they don’t solve the problem of what to do all day. After reviewing my options, I decided to write a memoir about the rags-to-riches-to…sweaters…story of my career as a pro golfer.
I know I have some decent material and, after spending twenty-five years in advertising, some experience as a writer, but I underestimated just how difficult it would be to get the working conditions right. Either it’s too bright or dim, there’s too much glare or shadow, it’s too breezy or stuffy, and every day it’s different. And although I rarely get any, I find it very difficult not to keep checking my email or what’s happening on the Senior Tour without me, sometimes following Earl and Stump hole by hole. After two weeks of work, I don’t have much more than a title—Making the Cut and Missing It: The Journey of a Journeyman—and to be honest I had that the first day.
When the lighting, temperature, and wardrobe issues have been sorted, it’s almost eleven. Not quite time for lunch but I should probably take Louie for his walk. He’s been a little sluggish lately and the fresh air would do him good. Reluctantly, I push away from my desk again. Louie lies on his side on the carpet in a warm circle of sun and I jangle the leash in front of his nose. Normally that’s all it takes, but this time Louie refuses to be roused, perhaps because he’s already been on three walks this morning.
“Louie, don’t make me beg,” I say, and shake his leash again, but Louie doesn’t so much as blink. “Okay, fine, I’m begging.”