If you've got it, swing it.

To make a long story short and leave you completely in the dark regarding the myriad of reasons as to why, I was carrying a golf club to my appointment with my physiotherapist yesterday. And something took place.

I thought it my duty to chronicle this incident, lest you be faced with with a fate similar to mine when you, one of these days, find yourself ambling towards that physiotherapist's door, wildly swinging a golf club. Because why would you be carrying it, when it was so obviously designed to be swung. Not held in your fist by your side, but swung.

Got it?

SWUNG.

It's practically a golfing rule.

Really? That's what you call swinging it? Actually you were more like twirling it, like it was a baton. How else would you have managed to hit yourself on the nose with the shaft? Riddle me that?

Whatevs. So I wasn't swinging swinging the club, I was just moving it in a swing-like manner at a fair speed. Happy?

You were twirling. Like a baton. BATON. Like in a parade.

I can show you what else I can do with a golf club if you keep this up. How's that for twirling?

Didn't think so.

So, I was making my way from my car to this professional torturer's practice (although I do believe she personally prefers the moniker The Punisher), when a guard at the parking lot ran after me, yet stopped quite a few feet behind me.

"Ma'am...uh... ma'am?" the fella hollered at me.

I stopped and turned around. I was just a smidgen put off by the fact that I couldn't be Miss, but also simultaneously elated over not having been called Sir, none of which was apparent to the guard, since his eyes were glued to the object I was swinging in my hands.

"Yes?" I enquired.

The guard looked uncomfortable. He was holding one hand up with the palm facing me, as if he would have liked to have high-fived me, if only I would have been willing to surrender the club. Somehow his approach and demeanor toward me also reminded me of one of those people who wrestle alligators for a living, or trap snakes, or train tigers, or something in that vein.

"Are you alright ma'am?" he said, now looking straight into my eyes.

While I briefly weighed the consequences of saying something along the lines of "I will be right after I smash this car," or "no, not until I teach this guy a lesson," I couldn't quite bring myself to do such a thing to this poor boy. Who was obviously scared.

And I'm pretty sure I could make out the armed guard not too far from us, and definitely within shooting range.

"Alright?" prodded the scared man, while he brought both of his hands in the air, as if I was holding him up with my frighteningly powerful 9-iron.

That I was still holding half in the air. Possibly very menacingly.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just going to the doctor. See," I explained, and swung a little with the club to drive my point home.

Since I'm sure it was easy for him to see the connection between going to the physiotherapist and swinging the golf club around at a rather busy parking lot.

Much like for you at the moment.

I am a complex woman.

This is not a parking lot.