This summer seems to be dominated by the theme of what women
will do for the men they love. There’s
this little book called Fifty Shades of Grey – perhaps you’ve heard of
it? All the women in the western
hemisphere seem to be a-flutter over what a straight-laced, nice girl
will do when asked by the man of her dreams.
I think we can all admit that we’ve read at least one People Magazine
article about what Katie Holmes may or may not have done during her marriage to
her once-Prince Charming, Tom Cruise. So
I felt right at home with these brave women when my husband sat me down this
summer, looked at me with those huge, blue eyes, and asked me to do the most
shocking thing I could imagine.
…
Scott wanted me to start playing golf.
I like sports. I adore sports. In my life, I have played tennis, soccer,
basketball, fenced (it’s true!),run track, and been a cheerleader. I avidly watch SEC football. Golf?
Golf is for people who don’t like excitement. For people who sip bourbon and talk about
their stock portfolios. For people with
country-club logos emblazoned on their sun visors. There was no possible way I was going to buy
into this crazy idea. Scott was on his
own. After seventeen years together,
this was asking waaay too much of me. I
am a nice girl, brought up with good values, and I would not give in to him, no
matter how hard he pleaded.
Then he bought me a set of clubs. (I am bribed so easily.) They’re really pretty. And they came in a sky-blue bag. And they’re guaranteed to help a first-timer
ease into the game while providing exceptional distance and feel on impact,
while also being forgiving with a large sweet spot.
We joined the country club (under-40 golf membership.) He took off work Friday morning so we could
play our first nine holes together. For
the record, Scott takes off work when I am giving birth, being cut open by
surgeons, and… no, wait, that’s it.
Scott goes to work with 103 degree fever. Scott
puts the snow chains on the tires and makes it in to the office when nobody
else can make it out of his driveway. Scott
goes to court battling stomach viruses that would level an elephant. Scott inherited his father’s professional
drive when it comes to showing up at the office, except when a small, white,
dimpled ball is concerned. He has a
kryptonite, after all!
We drowned golf balls.
Scott hit someone’s house. I
think I gave a goose a concussion. And I
managed to bogey on one hole with some sort of beginner’s luck. We laughed and cursed and had an enormously
wonderful time. How could I love a game
that made me so crazy? I couldn’t wait
to get to the next hole, and I was horrified at how sad I was when it was
over. When could we do it again?
After we finished our scandalous morning together and I came
home, I set up shop in the back yard and hit practice balls for another hour,
trying to figure out fairway shots. (How
DO you get distance without a tee?) Saturday
night, we packed up the kids and went to a driving range and hit balls until
closing time. Sunday, we lay on the
couches and watched the British Open (“The Open”) all day, passing issues of
Golf Digest and Golf for Dummies back and forth to one another and
discussing whether Adam Scott would blow such a large lead (bless his heart, he
did.) We ordered the kids TaylorMade
hats because let’s face it, that’s just really funny. We scheduled lessons with the country club
golf pro. We cancelled plans to go to
the lake just so we could make it to those lessons.
I was in the back yard tonight in my rubber duckie pajamas,
with my driver and a glass of wine, wearing my golf shoes, working on my swing
when my neighbor leaned over the fence and told me in the most loving way
possible that I had completely lost my mind.
We’re hopelessly bad.
We’re learning. We’re naïve. Our enthusiasm to play every second of every
day will wear off at some point. We’re
terribly outmatched at the club, and we can imagine the laughs that other, “real”
golfers are having at our expense. But we’re
having fun. And that’s a handicap I’ll
take any day.
