Hidden Treasures

Hidden treasures

Humans and animals developed a limbic system (“lizard brain,” as it is also known) as a defense mechanism to get out of difficult, and often life threatening, situations. This is a story about my limbic system.

I’ve been golfing my whole life. I don’t really remember when my dad first began teaching me, but I’ve been playing as long as I can remember. As a kid with ADHD, golf is simultaneously a dream sport and a guaranteed opportunity for a meltdown. Like much of my life, golf provided yet another arena for extreme ups and downs. But the ups rarely even had to do with how well, or poorly, I played golf. No doubt, I remember my first birdie. It was actually a chip-in that I hit too hard, the ball hit the flag pole out of pure luck, and it just happened to go into the hole. I swore that I would be in a good mood the rest of the day. This, however, was a short-lived endeavor; however, as the very next tee shot I duffed and slammed my driver into the ground; surely giving my dad anxiety about bringing his rage-filled 13-year-old to play a game that is predominately by decorum, class, and etiquette. 

One of the "ups" that would determine how I judged my time spent on the course was whether or not I found any treasures in the woods while searching for my golf ball I just hit into the aforementioned woods. Golf balls were the most readily useful treasure as I wasn’t very good and I lost several balls each round I played. A box of cheap golf balls costs as much as a CD or three footlong subs from Subway or two meals from Panera Bread (it’s good to put things in perspective). So free balls meant more DMX, Limp Bizkit, Subway, and Panera. For some reason, the pinnacle of golf ball brands, to me, was Slazenger. The logo is a cheetah or jaguar or another large cat jumping through the air. Titleist is, hands down, the most respected golf ball in the sport. But I didn’t like the Titleist logo. It’s in cursive. Cursive sucks. Slazenger is in a nice bold typeface. And did I mention the cheetah-puma thing? 

When I was younger I spent almost equal amounts of time playing the actual sport, and feeding my insatiable lust for scavenged golf balls looking in the woods, ponds, and tall brush. But every so often you find something else, like a club head that had been severed from the shaft after someone’s unbridled rage wrapped it around a tree. Wayward golf balls were the most common foreign object one would find in the forests within golf courses; however, there are other…things…in the forest. You just never knew what treasure you were going to find when you ventured into the woods in search of those precious little balls. 

One time I was searching for balls when I saw something white, but much bigger than a ball. I made my way to the treasure with an ample amount of adrenaline (be still, my beating heart). but my heart rate was definitely elevated (I mean, come on, what if it’s a pair of shoes or a jacket? In the middle of the woods. left there. in pristine condition. It would toootally happen). It was not a pair of shoes, but lo! A brand new golf towel! I had never owned one of these! For some reason, gold towels were like, $30 (the reason is that golf is full of rich, pompous pricks with remarkably low emotional intelligence). Sure they had them in the pro shop but pro shops are expensive as shit and I never bought anything from them except passage to hit my precious golf balls into their menacing woods. But now I’ve got one. The whitest cloth you’ve ever seen. I was headed back to my cart, reveling in my great fortune when I saw it. Just a glance. Out of the periphery. Oh god. Panic set in. Limbic system: ACTIVATED. Disgust. Horror. Gagging. Utter and immediate regret. What have I done?! Confusion. Oh god. What have I done? What has someone else done?!? Oh god! But no! What type of wretched beast? In the name of sanity, what in the hell is happening to our society that someone could do something so foul; so… offensive. Friend, I beseech you, (yes, read on because thou hast been beseeched!) the whiteness of the towel had been besmirched- nay, it had been ravaged. It’s purity and dignity robbed. I dropped the towel. Holding my hands up in the air in defeat and shame. Retreating back to my cart, the fortune replaced by shame, remorse, and contrition. My quest was over. Perhaps it would be my last quest ever. In an instant I was bestowed such a heavy loss. Such a stain on the novelty of finding expensive golf balls in the woods in an effort to play more golf without buying expensive golf balls. This one instance marred my eyes. It marred my heart. It tore my soul. But friend, the worst part, far worse than the marring, than the tearing, was that it so profoundly confused the mind. There is no explanation for something so hideous. But unfortunately, there is 

A perfectly

Good

Explanation….

This is my interpretation of the events as they most likely unfolded, as you, friend, will see, is no doubt the only way these events could have transpired:

For in an instance of utter panic; no doubt sheer, disconcerted mayhem; in a haste sure to bring instantaneous upheaval to any degree of peace. A desperate fool at the end of his pathetic rope, plum out of options, made haste to the woods; the restroom facilities were just too far out of reach to receive such a fast and horrid movement. But! Before the calamity. Before the calamitous storming of the wood. Just before this desperate fool's fully alert and engaged limbic system kicked in, “Jerry” (as he shall be called henceforth) grabbed his brand new, company sponsored towel. And that towel: So white. So soft. So perfect. So, unsoiled. Would become, in one, steady, exasperated, and daunting maneuver, very, very soiled. I can almost see him, Jerry, speed walking, shuffling; cheeks clenched, breathing controlled, but strained, one hand applying pressure in the general area of the orifice, the other, clutching that stark white, bastard of a towel: so young, so innocent. so pure. And after the great release; after the deed of misery was complete. The towel was used to clean the affected area, and thusly, cast away. Perhaps that very day, maybe that very hour, a young but curious 13-year-old would walk the same path of this miserable fool named Jerry. This young soul, as innocent and pure as the towel itself, would discover the atrocity, only after picking up Jerry's lack of sensitivity to a sport built upon the foundations of decency and civility. Humans and animals developed a limbic system as a defense mechanism to get out of difficult, and often life threatening, situations. . But it wasn’t designed to help us prior to the arrival of danger. Stay safe, friends. And be vigilant.