So, I golfed this past weekend. Honestly. I did. The last time I did such a thing, I was with the better half of this blog, and it was forever ago. Like for-ev-er. And by forever, I mean something like May, of course. And though I hit the best seven-iron of my life that day, it wasn't enough to raise my interest in perusing more golf outings more often this summer.
Why? Because I'm awful. Like, super awful. And I can't get better. Like, at all. The summer before last was easily the summer in which I played the most golf, and by the time August rolled around, I contemplated selling my clubs.
It's an odd thing, golf is. All men seem to want to learn how to play it after they pass a certain age, and more often than not, end up becoming good enough to continue playing through springs, summers and falls. It's a display of power, actually. A lot of business deals get done on the golf course (or at least in my small, little mind, they do. Kind of like in the same way I've now become convinced that all big-time athletes cheat on their wives in some underground secret world that only pretty people are allowed into. Thanks Brett Favre.)
All that said, this particular golf outing was a bit different for me. And why is that, you ask? No, it wasn't because I got an actual, true, honest-to-goodness bogey on the fifth hole, silly. It was because I clocked in some overtime on my Man Clock by drinking beer while partaking in such golf-like activities. That's right: A dude who hit a ball with a stick up and down a pretty-looking forrest who was drinking cans of Miller Lite. That's me. A man amongst men.
The result was exactly what I thought it would be (and also, I may add, a big reason as to why I've never done such a thing before): Awful. Never mind the fact that we could get through only 15 holes before the sun subsided for the day, and neither of us could actually see. Never mind the fact that by the 11th hole, I had lost all of the balls I had purchased that very day before hitting the links. And never mind the added pressure of betting a dollar on each hole with the guy I was playing with (wow, that's three! Golfing. Drinking. Gambling. Put me in a Ford commercial!).
Fatigue. That's all. When I drink, I get tired (unless if singing and dancing is involved, of course). And I knew that if I ever decided to try and mix the game of golf with such a thing, I'd be suffering. And boy, was I suffering. The sun setting didn't help, either. Fifteen more minutes and I would have cuddled up on the back of the cart for a two hour nap. By the time we made it back to the car - and I noticed it was only seven at night - I felt as though the only thing left to aspire for was a ball of yarn and a rocking chair, and you could have mistaken me for an 85-year-old grandmother. It killed me.
The lesson learned here? Don't drink and drive (get it?! That's so punny!). Does this mean I'll give up golf for the rest of the year? Probably (if for no other reason than the fact that I left my clubs in the back of his car). Does it mean I'll be one of the first people at a driving range once winter subsides and the weather becomes warmer next April? Absolutely. And, of course, the biggest question: Does this mean I'll be able to further the quality of my golf game next summer now that I have done the one thing I've never done on the golf course?
Not a chance. But hey. At least I don't look like this guy...