I've been studying too much this semester.
My suite held an intervention for me a few weeks ago during which they discussed the dismal state of my "Fun Quotient," which apparently had sunk to unacceptable depths.
"We're concerned," they told me. "So we want you to drink this handle of vodka. But don't do it for us. Do it for you."
I escaped with my liver intact, but started to wonder if perhaps their claims had some merit because on three separate occasions last week, friends of mine approached me and said things like, "Hey, you been sleeping lately? You look horrendous."
(Not, "Hey A-J, great to see you," or perhaps, "Hey, isn't it a gorgeous day in Charlottesville, A-J," but rather, "Wow, do you have leprosy?")
I responded, "Yeah, I've been working pretty hard lat--"
"No I mean really. You look awful."
"Yeah, well what I was saying is that I've been wor--"
"Jeez, I mean just look at the bags under your eyes. They're ridiculous."
So I decided to take a weekend to unwind a little. This week I don't have too much work to worry about, and since I don't have class on Fridays (mwahahaha), I decided to relax, sleep in, get outside and enjoy my free time.
Then, I woke up on Friday at 8:36 with what I was convinced was the Galloping Consumption. I sounded like an 80-year-old who has been smoking four packs of Marlboro Reds a day since conception. But I wouldn't let a cough get me down.
I spent the day watching basketball, reading and hacking up chunks of my lungs. My relaxing weekend was off to a great start.
Friday night was pretty quiet. I planned on staying to watch more NCAA March Madness action. But when a suitemate of mine suggested going over to Slaughter to hit the hardwood and "get our dribble on" (as the kids say these days), I couldn't resist. Who cared that I probably had pneumonia and hadn't touched a basketball since last July? Nothing would get in the way of me enjoying my relaxing weekend.
I discovered that there is a reason that 80-year-old emphysemics don't play basketball. After about 40 minutes I felt like I needed an oxygen tank. To make matters worse, I had shot a tepid 3 for 32,387,510 from the floor and had only two rebounds. The guys I played with started telling me to, "Hang in there little guy."
One suggested that perhaps, "You're just off because you're tired. I mean, you look terrible."
A hot shower was all it took to make me feel better, and my weekend was back on track. I was also looking forward to Saturday morning, when I would be playing golf for the first time since last summer.
I even felt better when I woke up on Sunday morning after a decent night's sleep.
I grabbed my clubs and headed off to Meadowcreek Golf Course in Charlottesville.
On the first tee I pulled out my driver and got ready to kick off the 2004 golf season. The atmosphere was absolutely electric.
For anyone who doesn't play golf, it is difficult to comprehend the maddening pressure of the first tee. Everyone is watching: your partners, the starter, the group behind you, the strange old man in the yellow polo shirt and tan wool pants. This is where you take out your biggest, baddest club and declare to all present that, "I AM MAN. WATCH ME HIT LITTLE BALL FAR."
Of course, one makes this manly declaration while wearing bright white khaki golf pants, saddle shoes and a polo shirt.
I took my 746 practice swings and stepped up to hit my drive. I imagined a towering, soaring, galactic shot that would rocket into the clouds and slam into the Earth, causing a small earthquake.
Instead, I hit a ground ball up the left side of the fairway just passed the ladies' tees.
"I am man," I squeaked.
"Sure you are, son," said the starter from his little hut. "Look, why don't you go home, get some sleep and come back for 18 holes tomorrow. You can't possibly play well in the condition you're in. You look terrible."
I picked up my bag and stormed away -- 15 yards away to hit my second shot. But nothing would get in the way of my relaxing weekend! Not evergreen trees, water hazards, sand traps, geese or even the horrendous sunburn I discovered on the car ride back to school.
On Sunday I did eight metric tonnes of laundry and watched more March Madness. I took a nap around dinner time and again woke up feeling pretty good. I came out of my room and slumped down on a couch in the common room. I figured I'd spend the rest of the night lounging around -- maybe fall asleep early. Maybe my relaxing weekend had succeeded. I felt recharged. Reenergized. Ready to go!
"Hey, A-J. Finish your column yet?" someone asked.
And suddenly I was exhausted.
A-J Aronstein can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com
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