Myopia Hunt Club, South Hamilton, Massachusetts, northeast of Boston
I woke up this morning in Texas Hill Country feeling awful. I’d slept for twelve hours after too many 2 a.m. late nights with the boys. The first thing I did was shave my mustache off because I couldn’t wash the smell of cigars out of it. There are only so many mornings I can be greeted with an ashtray on my nose.
I canceled a flight to Denver for a business dinner with a dozen gents. I also forwent a week in Aspen, where I planned on napping, reading, and walking. I desperately needed some time to unwind; guess I’ll have to do it in Atlanta. I was looking forward to the chilly temps.
Now I’m in a massage chair at the airport: five bucks for fifteen minutes of a pseudo-massage. I’m listening to The Holdovers soundtrack. It’s a bit blue, but so am I.
I didn’t wake up this morning just feeling physically exhausted. My mental health is suffering, too – maybe worse.
I’ve been on the road for almost two years – that’s too long. Some of it is glamorous, and some of it is an adventure most men would kill for, but most of it is eviscerating.
I was talking to a buddy yesterday who asked where I was off to.
“Denver, Aspen, Boston, New York, D.C., then back to Boston and D.C. again.”
“Man, I’d kill for that,” he replied.
“No, you wouldn’t,” I said. “It’s a lot of uncomfortable beds, lonely meals, and packing a suitcase you despise having to lug around.”
“But what about that Kerouac life? Freedom. You can go anywhere, do as you please.”
I have to be in Austin and Boston and D.C. every month like clockwork. Of course, I designed this life (quite intentionally). None of this is by mistake – I just didn’t know the reality of it – like waiting on another flight in a five-dollar massage chair.
I recently got to visit Myopia Hunt Club, which was a dream come true. I drove past wild turkeys on the polo field and took a long shower in the locker room. Beneath rays of sunshine, I stood there, eyes closed, as hot water massaged my neck. May sound odd to some, but for me, it’s as good as it gets.
I got to smoke my pipe in the Union Club in Boston while lying prostrate on a weather-beaten couch. No noise. No distractions. Just a Dylan record and the sound of rain in Beacon Hill. As good as it gets.
I got to read fireside in the Cosmos Club library in D.C. Comfy chair, banker’s lamp, silence. Harvard Classics, Volume One, leather-bound. As good as it gets.
I wish I had more “as good as it gets,” but it’s time away from my family, and all that goes with that. My brain is suffering. So much darkness.
I know the source of my illness.
