Against my better judgment, I scheduled a tee time for early afternoon today. I took a shower, slathered on sunscreen and tossed an extra shirt in my bag, just so I could to be dry on the drive home.
Then I walked outside.
In the 10 steps from my front door to my car, I suddenly came to my senses: Only a dope with a death wish would play golf in this 101-degree weather. What, did I want to be carted off the course like Michelle Wie at the John Deere Classic?
I can't believe I actually stood there for a minute or two, with my hand on the car door, debating whether it was really as hot as it seemed, or was I wimping out? By then the smoldering heat had begun to rise up from the asphalt. Yeah, it really is that hot.
I walked back inside, cracked open a bottle of ice cold water and returned to my desk, where I adjusted the air conditioning vent near my feet to wide-open. What was I thinking?
Is anybody playing in this heat?