Exposure

I didn’t write a new “From the Edge” last week. I had nothing to say that seemed worth saying. That’s happening more and more.

I scanned my news sources for column fodder, and there was Tiger Woods running into stray women and a fire hydrant. It was a good story, although his wife seems not to have put his clothes out on the lawn, breaking with tradition, and knocking out his car’s window with one of his golf clubs was inspired, but the most I had to say was that Woods’ affairs are nobody’s business but his wife’s. Then I imagined that if his wife thought that the richest athlete in the history of the world was never gonna do anybody but her, she probably shouldn’t be running around loose, and I could say that.

I could throw in my buddy’s maxim that no matter how fine a woman is there’s some guy who’s tired of doing her. Elin Nordegren, Tiger’s wife, is conventionally beautiful, but beauty has nothing to do with Woods’ ability to turn down all the booty that must come his way. He can’t just do well, or even better than most. He’s gotta bat zero, but he’s only a man, and we know what that means.

Then I could mention how social evolution begins with transgression, inevitably if you think about it, and that adultery may be a leading edge that could be mainstream in a century, except adultery is mainstream now. Still, although suggesting that adultery is inevitable and unremarkable may be worth doing, I don’t much care, and I don’t have to be the one to write about it.

I could also write again about my back yard, parts of which are being returned to wilderness. I’m thinking national park or some kind of preserve, but I don’t have much energy for my yard, period, so I’m just thinking and not doing anything. Fortunately, nothing is all that necessary.

The stuff that gets most of my thoughts and what’s left of my anguish isn’t ready for the public, namely you. Although I lean toward the solitary, I’m not. I have a family and a few friends and every now and then a colleague, and my history of mentioning people in print is such that I never do so unless I think I can get away with it.

I once mentioned someone in what I’d thought of as a fairly opaque manner—and in kind, admiring terms too. If I could’ve predicted the reaction I don’t know if I’d’ve been nearly so kind. I’d like to think so, so I will.

And sometimes I can tell that what I’m thinking will work best between my ears, and since nobody else is likely to understand anyway once I verbalize my feelings, I skip the blah-blah.

I mentioned my wife in print. Twice.