Played golf yesterday courtesy of my new employer, Ballantyne Country Club. It was 96 degrees and the dew point (whatever that is) was 89. So the heat index (whatever that is) was approximately a gazillion.
I was drenched in my own perspiration. I actually had to turn my cap backward to putt because beads of sweat were running from my forehead to the bill of my cap and dripping down at my feet, a most distracting thing.
But I drank a lot of water. I survived. And believe it or not, I even had fun.
Roberta and I weren't born in Charlotte. We weren't raised here. And we weren't forced to live here. We chose to relocate to a place where the summertime air is so thick, you practically can reach out, grab it and wring it out.
We knew about all that coming in, so to complain about it now would be pretty pathetic.
I like to look at it this way: It's perfect weather for brewing sun tea, my favorite beverage.
I also like to look at it this way: Autumn and spring in the Carolinas are spectacular, and this past winter was a great winter to be nowhere near Chicago. The price for that goodness: a few steamy months.
Oh ... for the record, I had five pars, a bunch of non-pars and finished with a 97.
As those who have golfed with me in all kinds of weather know, I'd be pretty dishonest if I tried to blame the heat index.