News broke this afternoon that Phil Mickelson has officially bowed out of the Masters due to a “personal health matter.” I don’t know what is going on with Phil, and I hope he’s okay, but I am intensely jealous of the phrasing. He “bowed out.” He just decided, “You know what? I’m not doing this,” and everyone has to accept it. I wish I could issue a press release every morning bowing out of my daily responsibilities.
Withdrawing from Reality
Imagine if I could just email the grocery store and say, “Kip Drordy will not be participating in the produce aisle today due to a personal matter.” I wouldn’t have to explain that the personal matter is just me being too afraid to ask an employee where the avocados are. Phil gets to skip the most stressful, highly-televised golf tournament in the world, and he doesn’t even have to provide a doctor’s note. The privilege is staggering.
The Augusta Anxiety
Honestly, I don’t blame him. Augusta National seems terrifying. The grass is too green. The patrons are too quiet. If I had to try and putt a tiny white ball into a hole while thousands of people held their breath and watched me, I would simply evaporate into dust. I would collapse on the 18th green and refuse to move. Phil made the right choice. Retreating into isolation is always the safest, most comforting option. Im going to close my blinds now.
