When it comes to marital harmony, or discord, you often hear the same themes discussed by women all over the map, in different phases of marriage, with all different types of spouse. Money (ie: not spending it at Poker Night), communication (nodding along while watching the game does not constitute a conversation), hygiene (your socks smell and your eye for soap scum is shoddy) and time management (5 minutes is 300 seconds, not 2 hours). But amongst all these common, generally mundane points of conflict lies the seemingly harmless yet often contemptuous beast named Golf.
Firstly, I must say that I do not enjoy golf. I do not enjoy long-lasting, tedious, difficult activities that are sometimes done in inclement weather. Furthermore, I do not enjoy activities that I am complete crap at performing. Not even remotely or moderately good, just really, really bad. And even though some of my lady friends do enjoy golf, I know their men folk still ‘need’ man-only golf time. As much of it as they can squeeze out of any given summer. And while they might act like they love the competition, the communing with nature, and challenge, we all know they love the boys, the beer and that little hussy who drives the beer cart. She works at every golf course I’ve ever been to.
I try to be understanding about this beloved hobby of David’s. I try to realize that if he plans to golf on Saturday, the entire day is a write-off. The golfing alone takes something like 4 hours, plus it seems to be required to go early to hit even MORE balls as practice, and there is a requisite meal with the guys after the actual golf is over. Apparently the 4 hours they spent wandering around together wasn’t enough, and some kind of post-play wrap-up is necessary. But sometimes it’s just too much.
And then there’s the bi-annual experimental couple’s golf outing. Every now and then, in the name of socialization and peer pressure, I become Dave’s partner on the course. I’m usually exempt from all aspects of the game except putting, and occasionally chipping. I have exceptionally terrible hand eye coordination (meaning I swing and miss the ball quite often if I try to drive) and I don’t have much spatial conception (because I don’t like wearing my glasses unless it’s an emergency), plus my attention span is unusually short. One year Dave tried to delegate me to the job of cart driving, but all that stop-and-go got in the way of reading a very interesting book. So you can see why these times of togetherness are limited.
But this week I suited up and headed for the course with David, his little sister Julie, and her beloved Glenn. The shortest of these monsters is about 6 feet of pure athleticism, so I knew I would be taking the back burner as usual. I did some pretty impressive putting, kept the score, and wandered aimlessly into the dangerous path of oncoming balls.
The sun was shining, the prairie wind was more of a breeze, and the beer cart hussy brought us refreshments. What more could one ask?