Four, Fore, Forgettabout It

Since I am still reeling from my humiliating experience this afternoon, I figure I'll type this one out for either sympathy or cheap entertainment value at my expense. I'm thinking it will lean to the last choice~~~~~

       Golf. Yes, this is about ugly pants, golf clubs and whacking a little innocent ball around. Now, I don't golf. I've really never had the desire to golf, I believe it felt like too "wimpy" of a sport for me to participate. I usually lean to the rougher side of athletics, and my impression of golfing, golfers, wasn't held in my priority of things to try out, like say, skydiving...........

       Either way, I've found myself in a business where it seems everyone participates in golfing. Want to do business? Go golfing. Want to grease the wheels with a client? Go stinking golfing. Want to do something for charity? Go freaking golfing. Want to waste a day away instead of working? Go bloody golfing. It seems, I am the only one out of the loop with this whole golfing phenomenon.

       So I throw in my resistance and buy ugly shoes, a cute Nike golfers glove and sign myself up for lessons. 

       A colleague recommended a golf course and a certain "Golf Pro" for my lessons. I made the call and set up weekly lessons. I've suffered through two. This is the over view of my experience and trauma.

Lesson # 1 last week      
      
       I felt like a child on the first day of school walking into unfamiliar territory, i.e., Golf shop in the Country Club. I realized I probably should have dressed a bit more "uppity" because others parading around had a certain "look" and I did not fit the criteria. I figured that to fit in I would need an entire makeover in a split second and my appointment was in 5 minutes. I decided not to buy a new outfit and quickly change in the bathroom, and just suffer with looking out of place. Fine, no biggie, I could handle the plastics checking me out.

       What I wasn'tprepared for was Adonis David, my golden golf instructor. If there is a GQ Golf Magazine, the man looks like he belongs on the cover. This isn't the type of beauty I wanted hovering over me as I learned the fine art of whacking a little white ball. His beauty made me nervous, his sparkling white smile blinded my vision and his masculine cologne distracted my thought process. He looked like a God in designer Golf wear. Not Good.

       He handed me some sort of club, I believe a 9 iron or a whacker iron, oh hell who knows....... and escorted me out to the green. Let the humiliation begin.

       Now, I must say here to those who golf. Bravo, well done, love the whole form thing <I'm kidding it's a revolting manipulation of body parts>. My Adonis of Golf had laid his back over mine, ran his finely toned arms down my own and cradled his hands around mine all in the name of showing me fine form. This was the classic 'spooning' except there wasn't a bed in sight...........

        I was drowning in the smell of him, I wanted to die. I wanted to run for the hills and get out of this highly uncomfortable position. Then my God Of Golf starts correcting me, with lines like "straighten your forearm" while running his hands over my skin to align me correctly. Oh and we can't forget this one, "you need to keep your hips pointed parallel in front of you even as you swing" while taking my hip bones into his hands and holding me in place. It was pure hell.

       To cut a long lesson # 1 story short. I figured out how to swing, in this one short lesson. In fact as King David exclaimed, I'm a natural. With ability he's never seen on a first timer blah blah blah. I could whack that little ball 220 yards precisely and with deadly aim. It even began to feel like a game for him. Him saying "See if you can hit that tree over there" and I'd align in my uncomfortable position and whack, I'd hit the tree. Then he'd pick another target, etc., etc. My lesson went an extra 15 minutes for him to puppet master me around the green.

       But I left that lesson feeling pretty puffed up and cocky like. A natural, I kept thinking, Master David thought I was spectacular. Visions of the PGA tour and plaid skirts flashed into my mind. His last words lingering in my mind, "Rebecca, I cannot wait to put the power of a driver in your hands"            

The God David was my Master and I was his PGA tour apprentice.

Lesson # 2 Today's humiliation

       I'm female and this was Adonis David, I admit, I bought a new outfit for the occasion, splashed myself with my best smelling cologne and even applied lip gloss. If this falls into the line of typical, well so be it, you can't hang with a God and not look presentable. Besides, what if someone accidentally took a picture of me and it was featured in Golf Pro magazine someday as "Rebecca, before she won the PGA tour" No snickers, it could happen, at least that was my mind set before today~~

       I met with my Master in the Golf shop and he looked delighted to see me. He instantly started feeding my PGA filled mind with more strokes to the ego. Saying things like "I've told all the guys around here how far you could hit, how good your aim is, how amazing you are,," etc., etc.........My ego and attitude floated to the 18th hole and back. Yoda David grabbed two clubs and started directing me onto the driving range. We settled into our spot and I started the warm up process, thankfully, he had to correct me several times. Meaning, the touches of a God.....yessssssssss........

       I only dug a ravine in the grass once and was on my merry way of pleasing my instructor, eager for more kudos when our haven was interrupted by two more Princes. David was King like, and these two seemed well on their way, therefore I thought to myself, princes of Golf. I wasn't excited for this new intrusions, in fact, hitting for an audience didn't sound like fun any way I looked at it. But my darling David, his voice beaming with pride, explained to them that I was indeed his prodigy golf baby that he had been telling them about.

       I had no choice but to make David proud of his new student.  Like a puppet, I began hitting the little white ball where instructed. Listening to the conversation with a smile and swelling ego. My balloon of pride was floating to the heavens and I just knew we were all witnessing a divine golf miracle.

       And then, one of my Princes turned into the Prince of Darkness. With one statement he turned his bow, the crusher of dreams, to the sky and sent an arrow through my balloon of pride.

"Oh, I know why she can hit so damn far," he said in a sheer moment of brillance,"Look at her chest, she's so flat that she doesn't have to compensate over or under breasts like other woman do."

And to make matters worse, Prince two turned into the Prince of nightmares and chimed in, "Ya, she's kinda built like a man, tall and lean, with narrow hips. Thats why she can keep everything lined up so well!"

       Whoooshhhh, airball, whiffed, missed, whatever the hell golfie's call it. I missed the damn ball. All concentration went zipping away with my erratic burst balloon of pride. Gone, crushed, smashed like the chest they were referring too. Visions of PGA were replaced with heading to the next plastic surgeon for implants of fake vanity. Crimson shades of appalled embarrassment flushed across my face. I was horrified and furthermore, embarrassed to the point of dire consequence. My natural abilities had evidently fell into the ditch with my mentally bashed ego.

       Ruined emotionally before I'd even had the chance to show my stuff with a driving iron.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       I think everyone has a vanity sore spot. Whether it's legs too short, nose too big, a butt to small, or a butt too big and with me, it's always been about my chest. Thats right folks, I'm not part of the Victoria Secret club. Wonderbra really only works if you have something marginally big enough to start with.

       I believe I could have heard anything else, but that one. I flubbed, flustered, flogged and cursed every other ball I hit after that. Why oh why, did my natural ability fly out the window with the Prince of Darkness callous remarks about my body type. Was he just trying to justify in his mind why I could hit the ball as far as he could? I don't know, but I do know he is officially an ass in my book and I walked off the green today deflated, figuratively and I guess literately if ya know what I mean, and ego-less.

       I've decided I'm leaving golf for the Over and Under the breasts ladies. Next up, I'll try Skydiving. I'm sure parachute straps won't care if I'm flat or large. Although, with that sport, it may be about straps to the side or up the middle. Who knows, but I've resisted making the call to the surgeons of buoyancy. I mean come on, what if I bought some big bazooka's and they impeded my flyfishing!