Go!

And we’re off! Here’s the opening to The Five Step Plan. Enjoy!

I’ve pinpointed when my life officially went to hell. It was the week I lost the court jester charm off my bracelet.

It fits, actually. I haven’t had much to laugh at in a while, which would explain why I’m trolling the parking lot of Exwood Estates Golf Club looking for a whilte BMW. The white BMW 650i belonging to my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, or whatever you call the 37-year-old man you’ve bought a condo and built most of a life together with.

BMW spotting is much harder to do, by the way, when your eyes are swelled up like a tree frog’s. I do not cry beautifully. No tears rolling down porcelain cheeks for me. “Hello misery” hails the onset of “Hello, frogface.”

Frog-faced or not, finding the right BMW is going to be a trick in this parking lot. Every car that isn’t a Lexus or a Mercedes is a BMW, assuming it’s not one of the unholy Excursion/Escalade/Hummer trio. I’m surprised alarms didn’t go off when my nine-year-old Jeep rolled through the Exwood’s perfectly-landscaped gates.

But they didn’t, and here I am–and there it is. Immaculate, white, vanity tag. DSRV IT.

I know what he deserves, and trust me, it ain’t a BMW.

I consider busting into the clubhouse and pitching a hissy fit when I spy the clubs. Top-of-the-line Callaways, nestled into a tour bag the size of an airplane hangar.

“Why do you need that bag?” I remember asking, “You walk eighteen with those and they’ll have to drag your dead body to the bar.”

“You can’t walk at the courses I’ll be playing. Carts only.”

Well, la-te-damn-da. But good for me, since the valet has cleaned the sacred Callaways and deposited them so conveniently for me.

I wonder what sound Big Bertha makes when she gets up close and personal with Big Live Oak?