I have mixed feelings about Tiger Woods.
If Tiger were Joe Schmoe, would I care what he does in his spare time? Not at all. By the same token, I don’t much care what Tiger does in his. And there were plenty who didn’t care what President Clinton did in his free time, either.
If I were Tiger’s wife… well, if I were his wife, I wouldn’t be his wife any more. Money and the good life be damned. But then, I never loved him like Elin has, and I haven’t had a chance to see how much being a multimillionaire might change my mind. So who knows, really?
What happened is between Tiger and Elin… and by default, his children, who are blessedly too young to absorb what’s transpired. At the present, anyway.
It’s not for me to judge. I wasn’t primed for fame from age three. I wasn’t blessed with (cursed with?) the power, money, and good looks to send men flocking to my feet. It’s easy for me to sit in my living room, with my cat purring on my lap, and shake my head at Tiger’s indiscretions, but wh…
Our mail comes to the mailbox at our driveway's end—a black plastic box that replaced the metal one the plow took down last winter. This is where I stick my outgoing mail, as well, flipping the red flag to attention so the mailman will stop, which he'd do anyway, because there are always supermarket fliers to deliver, if not bills. But today I need to mail a book to someone who reviews for the Internet Review of Books, so I go to the post office.
Post offices are funny places--friendlier than the Registry of Motor Vehicles, but not much more efficient. I've met some great people in both, and had some wonderful conversations while waiting my turn. Efficiency is not conducive to chatting; I'm fine waiting and talking.
Today I stand in line with a book in a "Priority Mail" envelope and a five-dollar bill in hand to pay $4.90 to send the book from snowy New England to New Mexico's desert in a day or two.
The line shuffles forward; only one of the two window…