An inner monologue about how I now love golf
All I ever knew about golf was this: I had a friend back in Michigan whose boyfriend was a golfer. That should be in all caps. GOLFER. He GOLFED. As in, he had the shoes and the clothes and the fancy, expensive clubs and was very, VERY serious. He spent HOURS. He spent HUNDREDS of dollars. He had tee times. Not tea, TEE. He TEED OFF (it makes me giggle a little to type TEE OFF. Like, TEE OFF, JACK!). Now, I have nothing against golf. I just don’t get it—FYI: me not getting something is not breaking news. There’s lots of stuff I don’t get, and I try to have a “Hey, Whatever,” attitude about it, ‘cause I’m sure I’m into things that other folks are thinking “Whaaaaa?” about, and they’re nice enough to support me, so, Go GOLF!—anyhow, I remember saying to my friend, “Friend, what’s up with the boyfriend’s golf thing?” and she said, “I have no fucking idea, it’s just one of his THINGS,” and she said the word THINGS with great emphasis and disgust, as though the THINGS in question were strip clubs, or eating maggots—it makes me wonder if Christopher and I have THINGS. Things we tolerate about each other, but secretly hate.
ME: Is there anything I do that you secretly hate?
CHRISTOPHER: [speaking very slowly and carefully] Are you reading that bridal planning book your step-sister sent you?
ME: She sent me the ANTI-bride planning book! Betsy gave me one, too! They’re the antithesis of bride-planning! They tell me to elope and wear a bustier and eat fried chicken!
CHRISTOPHER: Fried chicken sounds good.
—so whenever I hear the word “golf,” this girl’s incredibly nasty voice comes flooding back from wherever it was lurking in the back of my mind, and somehow translates into MEGAN YOU DON’T LIKE GOLF, even though I don’t know anything at all about golf and am therefore in no place to judge. Hunting, I can judge. Bowling, I can judge. Scrabble, too, and any myriad of board games, computer games, and other mental and/or physical challenges all of which Christopher does and, for the record, I truly love, and not at all because he always wins and I can stand there with that “That’s MY man!” sort of smug satisfaction. BUT, when he came home last week and said, “Hey, do you need the car Saturday? Tracy and I are going golfing,” I did do a double-take, yes I did. I did think, “Whaaaa?” And, “Since when did you become a GOLFER?” And then, “What’s your problem with golf, Megan?” and then, “I don’t know, it’s just this THING!” and then, “Regardless of how you feel about golf, we all grow and change and try new things, and we love one another during all this growth and change, this is what marriage is ABOUT!” and then, “Whoah, how did we get THERE?” and more back and forth (very much like Sybil with her multiple personalities, or Gollum talking in We’s) until I finally remembered the whole aforementioned Friend in Michigan Subconscious story, and I felt very hot shit with my own (free) psychoanalytical diagnosis. I thought, “How much better would the world be if we all took a deep breath, and tried to figure out the connotations of our reactions to things, especially if these things are more important in the grand scheme of things than GOLF.” I’m such a fucking philosopher. As a recent brunch customer of mine said after I helped her solve her very complicated Which Pancake Should I Order dilemma, “You should be on the U.N.”
Blah blah golf.
Here is what I learned from Christopher going golfing last Saturday: GOLF IS AWESOME.
Because here, in the city, golf is not golf but rather URBAN GOLF. Specifically, the Chicago Urban Devils Golf Enthusiasts’ League (CUDGEL), which, upon hearing the stories of their inaugural match, makes me want to rush out and golf. Perhaps, if you ask Christopher nicely in the comments, he’ll tell you about it. You can also check out their site (and photos/video footage—my man is in the purple pants) here. But most importantly, I will someday have my very own tee time. And have learned a valuable lesson about the inner workings of my brain.