“The Ball, the Bush, and the Bengay”

Oof! Ouch! Dang!”—and a few less printable words—flew out of my mouth as quickly as I’d teed off. It happened faster than a blink, and in hindsight, I was lucky it wasn’t worse.

I had just launched my cute Barbie-pink ball (of course it was Barbie pink) from the 5th tee, soaring it across a craggy canyon. Sure, it landed in the sand trap, but hey—it cleared the ravine, and I was darn proud.

Hubby, congratulating my athletic triumph, dropped me off just past the gully so I could pull off the perfect "out of the sand" shot. He drove ahead to the green, where his ball had nestled a few feet from the hole. He had a birdie shot. I was eyeing a par. Not bad, right?

Well, keep reading.

I picked my way down the rocky slope toward the bunker, mentally channeling my inner Tiger Woods. But just as I prepared for bunker greatness—whoosh! One wrong step on the sandy edge and down I went, sliding over the ravine’s side faster than I could shout, “Oh, crap!”

I landed unceremoniously on my tush and began an uncontrolled descent, breezing past what looked like a million lost golf balls hidden under rocks and sagebrush. No time for rescue missions now.

Clutching a bush (thank you, desert flora), I managed to stop my fall and start yelling. It felt like a scene from Indiana Jones—except Indy had a whip and a hat and, let’s be honest, Spielberg behind the camera. I had none of those.

You’d think all that commotion might summon hubby, but no—he’s a bit hard of hearing and couldn’t see me down the hillside. Thankfully, the twosome behind us spotted the drama and zoomed down for a very Lucy-and-Ethel-esque rescue. A few comedy beats later, I was scraped, slightly twisted, and safely back in the golf cart.

A Marguerite from the cart girl and two Advil later, I figured I was golden.

Wrong.

Two years post-ravine-roll, my left knee still protests. Sit too long and it howls when I stand. While I’d love to blame it on my wild golf adventures, my doctor gently confirmed: arthritis.

Cue my grandmother.

She never golfed or tumbled down cliffs, but oh, did her knees hurt. She’d call it “water on the knee”—because “arthritis” just sounded too ominous. In her 80s, she moved slowly but still gardened and kept a house you could eat off of.

A doctor? Please. Her remedy: Bufferin and liberal slatherings of Bengay—the kind that announced itself with the unmistakable scent of menthol and camphor. Her one-liner? “Old age doesn’t come alone.”

To this day, that smell reminds me of her. But let’s be clear: I’m not interested in sporting it as my signature fragrance.

Yes, I hate to admit I’m aging. But the Walgreens pain relief aisle and I have become well-acquainted. I’m forever hunting that miracle balm—with one non-negotiable: don’t make me smell like grandma.

At 73, I’m not giving up without a fight. Sure, I may groan when I stand and sigh when I sit, but I’m still living life full-throttle—bum knee, grumbles, and all.

Just no Bengay.

© 2025  Annie Sokoloff