Galvin crop

The other night, as we were retiring for the evening, it became abundantly clear that I had erred.

Let me rephrase: The error of my ways was pointed out in the cool, calm and collected manner that only someone who was not cool, calm or collected could elucidate.

“You opened the windows too early,” I was informed. “It’s 76 in here.”

That’s 76 as in degrees — not gasoline, NBA players or trombones.

Oops?

It was indeed a warm night but, as the moon waned over our stately manor, if I hadn’t opened the windows at all, the temperature inside would be that set by our air conditioner.

Which is … wait for it … 75.

On the scale of faux pas I’ve made over the past 45 or so years, one degree barely registers as a blip.

In times such as these, I lean upon the wisdom of my dear departed father — who, despite his lack of philosophical pedigree, was certainly a wise guy.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” he would say, often before doing something so totally off the radar of my own possibilities that his advice was easy to follow.

This bon mot has increasingly been found to be handy lately on the golf course, which is where I have increasingly found myself … now that I have retired, and not just for an evening.

(For those of you keeping track, this is my third retirement since 2022 — therefore, I now qualify as an expert. My advice to those contemplating their own retirement, “Do as I say, not as I do.”)

Speaking of getting better at things, I had planned to spend this time improving my golf game. I now find that I am spending this time improving her golf game as well.

Once again, my father’s sagacity is proven out: I am much better at offering helpful tips than following them. Thus far, as we waddle across the goose-occupied fairways of Stewart Meadows, the biggest difference in my game is a sharp decrease in the use of four-letter words.

She, however, is picking things up quite quickly. When she hits the ball, it’s basically going in the proper direction. She also knows when a putt is in gimme-range, and is politely admonishing her club after a missed shot.

When she does flub or fluff, I again rely upon the familiar patter of my paterfamilias in an attempt to restore her joie de vivre.

“It only hurts a little while,” I remind her with a smile, whereupon she gazes upon her golfing companion with a look that indicates that the temperature beneath her collar might need air conditioning.

Oops?

Rising temperatures, it seems, have been following me around. On the same day as The Great One Degree of Difference Disaster, I blew up some pork loin.

Do as I say: “Self, lightly cover the leftover pork loin before putting it in the microwave.”

Not what I do: BOOM! SPLAT!

Merde.

At the two-minute mark, the sound of a slight bubble burst was followed by a sound and sight last depicted in “Oppenheimer” — although no mushrooms were present for this explosion.

Some pork loin remained in the dish, while more was found on the revolving plate beneath … and on the three interior walls of the microwave … and on the top .. and the bottom … and on the inside of the door.

I had become the Jackson Pollock of reheating leftovers.

I muttered my way through cleaning the residue, as she offered helpful tips.

“And don’t worry,” she said cooly, calmly and collectedly. “It only hurts a little while.”