Ghetto Golf

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.

Mom: Oh.

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!

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