Watching Paint Dry

That's basically how Hubs and I feel about watching golf.  Mother-in-law golfs, father-in-law was a very good golfer when he was alive (maybe even better now, who knows?), and eldest son enjoys golfing. Me? I hate to watch, but probably wouldn't mind playing… if. If being the operative word. How many of use do something for the first time or two and if you have a lousy experience, just say to heck with it? I mean, really. Life is too short to screw around doing something you don't enjoy that you really don't have to do, right?

Several years ago we went on vacation with a bunch of friends to Wisconsin. It was an event that was pretty "guy-oriented", so during the day the guys would go do their thing and the women would do theirs. For the most part, that meant us women lay out by the pool (you know, back when sun-worshipping was a good thing) or went shopping or other mindless things. One day someone had the bright idea to golf on the small course attached to the motel. I will never be the same.

First, we were all wearing our swimsuits. We had shorts on, too, but basically were wearing next-to-nothing tops. I am pretty well-endowed and as such wear something "substantial" to "restrain" my "puppies". Oh, ye gods… I'm trying to do this so all the sickos in the world aren't finding me… Guess we'll see how well I do, huh?

So… here we are, golfing. I am being catcalled by women. Friends (or, aquantances more so) – who have had large quantites of sun and cold beverages (and I'm not talking iced tea, if you get my drift). All of these women are *ah-hem* flat… and you just know that pose you have to have to golf, where you put your arms straight out together? Well, things get squeezed into … oh, lord… just think of some porn star trying to accentuate her cleavage and you've got the picture. Only I was golfing. Innocent. Except for the loud, drunken women whooting at me.

The next humiliation was the inability of my club to hit the ball. I mean, there was no whiffing or divit or whatever… I wasn't even close. "Keep your eye on the ball"… "follow through"… uh huh. I did that. Honest. Nada. Zilch. Nothin'. This was not funny. I was incredibly humiliated. I mean, I didn't expect to be good at this, but I did expect to at least hit the damn thing. After several (count double-digits) tries, I became caddy and watched everyone else golf. *yawn*

About a month later, we were at one of the couples' houses who was an avid golfer and had been on the fateful trip. In the middle of a discussion of the trip, the golf escapade came up. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the woman jumped to her feet and exclaimed, "I've GOT it!" She got a gleam in her eye and declared we must go golfing. Right. Now. You can imagine how thrilled I was. Still, how could I resist that enthusism?

Off to the nearby course (where she had a membership, naturally). No slouch was she. Getting me some clubs rented, she set me up on the first hole, helped with my stance, and voila! I hit the ball! The first time. For a great distance (which I think was the point, if I remember correctly). In awe, I looked up to see her grinning ear-to-ear. "I figured it out!" she claimed. After she told me, it was glaringly obvious. So obvious, in fact, that I wondered why none of these avid golfers had come up with this solution while we were on the trip. I can only presume it had to do with the large quantities of cold beverages killing off those particularily important brain cells. Or, maybe those brain cells were only important to me. At that particular time.

The solution? Tall clubs. I am 5'9" tall. My friends are all lucky to be 5'4" tall. Whose clubs were I borrowing? Uh huh. I didn't have a chance in hell of hitting those balls. Laugh all you want, bitches. I made great cleavage.