The ball wasn’t going where I wanted it to.
Sometimes it would slice. Sometimes it would hook. Sometimes it would skid across the grass.
With each swing, my frustration mounted. And a sense of dread started to sink in.
You see, I had come to this driving range near Fort Worth with good intentions.
I was unemployed at the time, residing in an extended-stay hotel, and applying to jobs left and right. But none of it was going well.
No hiring managers were willing to take a chance on a career-changer with no experience in their industry. Few even offered me an interview. And all the while, I was burning through my savings to fund my food and lodging.
I needed to get away from it all. To spend an hour or so outdoors, doing something that could clear my head. And spending $20 to hit a bucket of golf balls seemed like a sensible choice.
But now I was kicking myself.
My hand was chapped from gripping the golf club too tightly. My golf pants and polo were drenched in sweat. And my doubts about my golf game threatened to rival those of my employability.
Was I ever going to be able to earn an honest living again? And if I did, would I even be able to live life to the fullest?
If this day was any indication, the answer was no.
It’s been more than a decade since that afternoon on the driving range.
I’m now gainfully employed, and I’ve advanced in my career. I have a true place to call home and tangible financial stability.
At first glance, I have everything the younger me once craved. But looks can be deceiving.
These days, I could go to the driving range just about any time I desire to. The cost is negligible, and the stakes are low.
And yet, I don’t do that. I haven’t for years.
For the joy in that activity has dwindled for me. Just as it has for so many others.
Some of this change is physical. I don’t have the stamina to do as much as I used to. And when I do wear myself down, my body aches for days.
But the shift is also mental. I’ve lost the capability for unbridled glee. And the sensation of letting myself go now feels foreign to me.
For example, there was a time when I loved roller coasters. I would patiently wait in line for hours at the theme park, boldly lock myself into the safety harness, and cheer with vigor through each dip and turn of the track.
I was having the time of my life.
I still want to love roller coasters in this way. And occasionally I do find myself riding one.
But as my body is defying the laws of gravity, my mind is somewhere else. It’s staring down from a distance as I dip and twist and invert.
I’m just not there anymore. Not completely.
This, I believe, is the encapsulation of experience.
Growing long in the tooth can make a person somewhat jaded. It can leave one detached from the thrills of life. It can estrange one from the reckless abandon of innocence.
With those connections severed, the only way to relive such sensations is through one’s own memories.
And so, from my high perch of career and fiscal stability, I look back longingly at my younger self. The one who would venture out to the driving range to clear his head, even if such a trek was to end in futility.
The older me might have the trappings of a successful life. But not the inclination to get the most out of it.
A few weeks after my ill-fated trip to hit golf balls, I got a call back for a job application I’d submitted.
The hiring manager wanted me to come into the office for an interview. I accepted the invite.
The interview ultimately went well. While I wasn’t one to count chickens, I was relatively confident that I’d be offered the job.
So instead of microwaving a pouch of rice back at the extended stay hotel, I went to a Cajun restaurant for a proper lunch.
Sitting at the bar in my suit and tie with a plate of fried crawfish in front of me, I was hopeful. This was just the start of the pathway to success, I told myself.
I think back on that memory of myself more than I’d like to admit. For that young and scrappy version of me was looking unabashedly at who I am today. And yet, I find myself just as unabashedly staring back.
We’re both staring through the murky portal of time. Each wanting what the other has — and neither knowing it.
Truth be told, we each want to believe that there’s no inherent tradeoff between youth and experience. That gaining one doesn’t necessitate losing the other.
But given the inextricable truth of that tradeoff, we’re each looking to fill a hole in the current version of our life. For one, the substance to sustain the joie du vivre. For the other, the joie du vivre itself.
It’s devastating in a way. Even tragic.
But it’s the reality of my life. And I’m not alone.
Indeed, many of us look longingly at our former glory, just as we once stomped our feet yearning for our future to arrive. If we think hard enough on it, we can each find our own split-screen moment.
But should we? That’s open to debate.
There’s something to be said in leaving the past behind and living in the moment. On recognizing that what’s gone is gone. And on giving it no further mind.
But there’s also value in sustaining those memories. On recognizing the sensations we once had. And on gaining context from those recollections.
Such thinking might not eliminate the tradeoff between youth and experience. But it will provide helpful context in assessing our lives. It will also make us more empathetic and socially aware — which is always a plus.
The key to this, of course, is discernment. We must be able to glance at our youthful past without getting consumed by the memory.
That’s easier said than done. I’m Exhibit A as to how challenging it can be.
But I’m working on it. And I will continue to do so.
I hope I’m not the only one.