The problem with nauseating privilege

Is - of course - the nausea.
I was thinking, today, as I climbed out of my car and walked past the putting green and the bag rack and the members lounge and the banquet hall and the entrance to the pool en route to the gym, that I can't really justify my anti-country club sentiments in any rational way.
Because, in theory, I'd really love access to a place that has a pool and a gym and a bar that only has my friends in it. In theory, that'd be almost ideal enough to warrant the expense.
I think that what really brings it down is the golf. And the golfers. And the fact that they're almost all middle-aged men.
It's not the privilege that irritates me, but the privileged. Perhaps myself included. And also the leering. The leering is kind of a problem too.

In other news, it's back to the Have after a visit to the cardiologist tomorrow (perhaps reasonably, my mother has decided that my tendency to pass out unpredictably is the sort of thing we should look into, though I kind of feel like I don't have time for a heart condition so I'd rather not know). I'm pretty psyched, since basically everything I have to look forward to is there and I put my life on hold in a serious way when I came home on Friday, ostensibly to see my family, but apparently just to catch up on my TV watching. Which I've done. Pretty thoroughly. In case you were concerned.