A few weeks ago I had this idea to learn golf. I told Matt, an experienced golfer, and his response was, “So now you’re leaving me with no refuge?” I think he was only kidding. I’m pretty sure about that. Like, almost 100%. Or 90%.
Ignoring my husband’s need for personal space, I signed up for a beginner golf series at Eisenhower Park. I even convinced my mom to take it with me. Golf is refined. Golf is classy. Golf is polite … until my mom and I started playing.
Some of our conversations from the first class (expletives ahead):
After listening to an annoying woman who stupidly left her own club unattended with all the practice clubs:
Crazy Lady: Someone has my club! I left it right over there and someone took it!
Mom: Is she still talking about that club? Shit happens!
Me: I don’t think you’re supposed to curse in golf.
Moments later after hitting a good shot:
Mom: Did you fuckin’ see that??
Me: Yeah, it was great but really you probably shouldn’t curse so much.
Mom: Oh yeah.
The class is only five weeks long so we think we may trash up tennis next!