So, alright, I've got some golf clubs now. That's a pretty big deal, especially if you're The Fiance because, well, he bought them. And also since I come in at a solid No. 2 on his list of Great Loves, after golf, of course, this just might move me a smidge closer to taking over top spot.
I mean, a fabulous soon-to-be wife who GOLFS, too?! That's HUGE, people. Huge.
Or so I like to tell myself. And he probably convinces himself when I'm being a nag.
OK. It's OK. Breathe. She'll be golfing soon. It's OK. It'll all be OK.
So I tried my hand at the game of golf this weekend. At the driving range, of course. Because, me? On a golf course? Swinging a driver? At a ball? No. Not gonna happen. Yet. First, I had to learn what I was dealing with here.
Now, babe, THIS is a driver.
I nod my head slowly.
This is your 3 wood. Your 5 wood. Your hybrids. Your irons.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.
Your hybrids are going to hit farther than your 7 iron.
And your sand wedge is going to help get you out of sand traps.
Excuse me, what?
Are you ready to try?
And that's when I passed out dead on the floor. Ok, kidding, kidding. I didn't really. But seriously. Golf? I can't do this. So I took out my DRIVER because, ha, I know what a driver does now, I set my golf ball on a tee and I was ready, boy. I swung that thing like a bat out of Hell. I was going for it, man. Me? I'm going to be Tiger Woods. It's on, Tiger.
And I completely missed the ball. AIR BALL. Or, no, that's the wrong sport. This is going to be ugly.
Well. Um. We need to work on your form.
So we tweaked the position of my arms. My legs. My hips. My head. My left ventricle. My toes. My eyebrows. And I'm pretty sure when I got home, I rearranged my furniture ALL in hopes of producing a better golf swing. And it worked. I was hitting the ball. That doesn't mean said ball was rocketing in any sort of forward motion, but it was rocketing, nonetheless. To the right. Against the wall. Two feet in front of me. And few and far between, that little golf ball would soar pretty far out there. And The Fiance was proud.
He's a golfer. Obviously. A GOOD golfer. It's like, his thing. So when HE is proud of my sorry attempt at golfing, that's some high praise.
So I was getting the hang of it. I was learning. I got blisters. And sore arms. I scored major cool points with the man I am to marry. This is it, World, I will be the best golfer EVER.
And then we went a second night. And I was off. SO off. I began to feel an inner rage. The kind of rage you see in drunken baseball games, where the guy who just struck out whips his bat across the field. I wanted to scream. Throw things. Punch the nearest person, who, whoops, was The Fiance. (No, I did NOT punch him). He was spouting his golfer knowledge at me, telling me how to position my arms, how to swing, WHEN to swing, HOW to golf. I wanted to throw a temper tantrum.
LEAVE ME ALONE, I CAN DO THIS BY MYSELF, I DON'T NEED YOU!!!!! BOO!!
Ahem. But, uh, I didn't. I reminded myself that he's ONLY trying to help, and that this is FUN and this will lead to years of married bliss and golf outings and togetherness and one day, when I'm on a Pro Tour, and he's watching proudly (and quite jealous, actually) from the sidelines, this whole thing will be worth it.
So that's it, folks. I'm a golfer.