Golf: I'm Doing It Wrong

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Golf - what's not to love? You're outside, you're drinking beer, and you're around lots of happy, relaxed men - many of whom may buy more beer.

Everybody wins.

And so each spring it happens: I get the Big Idea. I really should just lie down until these ideas go away, but I never do.

No, I get it in my head that this will be The Year, the one Wherein I Learn to Play Golf.

Now, I am a middle-aged white woman with a big wide rear-end and plenty of hideous, sensible shorts. So you'd think I'd already know how to golf.

But I don't. For many decades years now, I've been engaged in the process of just learning how to hit the ball, or "drive" I guess the kids call it these days. This is much harder than it looks - for me, anyway. 

So every March, I drag out my clubs, a gift the husband bought me one year after I excitedly told him my Big Idea:

"I want to learn to play golf!"

He's heard many of my "I want to learn . . . " Big Ideas - drawing, painting, piano-playing, jewelry-making. Most of these I've taught myself - or completely forgotten about; all of these have left us light in the wallet and heavy on accumulated junk supplies.

So, being the smart, sweet cheap frugal man he is, when I said, "Golf!" he went out and bought me a set of clubs - at a garage sale.

And that's fine with me, because the red-and-white, 30-year-old Wilson golf bag looks cool and kind of retro, and also meets what - in my eyes - ranks as the Most Important Golf Requirement:

It matches my shoes.

Ah, shoes.

Where was I?

Oh yes - golf. He bought me the cool bag and a bunch of clubs, all of which had numbers - 3, 5, 9 - that signified nothing to me, although I did recognize the putter from playing Putt-Putt. I can kick some Putt-Putt ass.

He put a tee and ball down in the grass, and began showing me how to hit the ball, or "drive" as the kids call it these days. He taught me how to grip the club, and he demonstrated the swing, the "all in the hips," then he set me up and came up behind me to lead my body through a swing, whereupon he faux-humped me and I punched him in the nuts. Lesson over.

His obssessive faux-humping is a chapter unto itself . . .

(Stay tuned! This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, and you'll want to read the rest because it contains boobs. 

No, not PICTURES of boobs, you perv. 

Just boobs. 

No, not pictures!)