I'd never hit a golf ball until yesterday, but turns out, I'm basically Tiger Woods. Only with a personality.
My roommate often spends sunny weekends staring off into the distance and exhaling, "I want to play golf today."
Oh, I'll hit some golf balls. Where do we go? What do we wear?
Unlike the male members of my family, I do not garner inclusion in their club, even now that it deigns to let women in. And I've never really been that pissed about it. It's my dad and brother's thing. All they do is play racquet ball and take steams.
I know their little code number anyway, so I can charge drinks at the bar. The only thing that really kills me is that the little cafe has one hell of a curried chicken salad sandwich, which is my main argument for why I deserve a membership. I mean, that's a fucking great sandwich.
And it's not available to the general public.
Which obviously, only makes it better.
But otherwise, I've managed to survive adulthood without country club affiliation and it's not as bad as one might imagine.
Until all of a sudden, one day you want to play golf.
Turns out, it's really expensive to show up at a golf course and try to play. Christ, it's really expensive just to get the outfits and clubs and various accoutrements required to blend with Muffy and Skipper.
But Mikey, my roommate/golf coach decided that if we went to the driving range, it'd be really cheap and more fun than playing 18 holes with someone who has no idea what the hell she's doing.
Oh, driving range. How Something About Mary.
I tried on like, 12 outfits.
And it's a shame we forgot the camera because I really feel like I captured the sartorial essence of golf attire based upon my exsisting options. I mean, I rocked the sweater tied over the shoulders of my Polo.
I borrowed Karen's clubs and little Michael Jackson glove and we headed to the top floor of the driving range.
With MINIMAL instruction, I took my first swing and to quote Mikey, "Oh my god. That was actually good."
Folks, I like a 9 iron. And I find if I relax, I do a lot better. As I told those around me, "Golf is 90% mental."
My golf coach, however, was stealing my goddamn thunder. This old man comes over, complete with cell phone earpeice and asks to watch Mikey swing. Turns out, "George" thinks my golf coach is some kind of undiscovered golf talent and I had to stand around listening to them talk about form and shit.
"Hey George, how come you don't want to watch my swing? I got 80 yards on my last one!"
George, not comprehending the complexity of my emerging skill, consoled me, "Oh, that's okay." And then went back to kissing Mikey's ass.
Whatever. I focused on hitting the kid in the armored golf ball retreiver cart and wondered whether or not Gavin was into golf.
Suddenly, Mikey revealed the best part of a day at a golf course.
"Okay, we're out of balls. Let's go to the bar."
Ah yes. I understand it now.
We sat outside, watching those far less talented that us smack golf balls into the sky and sipped our cocktails.
Then I cracked open the menu.
As if a sign from god, there it was.
A curried chicken salad sandwich.
Seriously. I could really get into this golf thing...