I’m Too Loud for Golf
Bob and I are thinking of retiring sooner than later in, despite the obvious cliche, Florida.
When I told my gal pals they uttered a collective gasp. “You can’t be serious?" “You’re not that old yet!” “What about your skin?” "Don’t you have to be a meth head to live in Florida?!” “Or Jewish?!”
I laughed off the hysterics until Shari offered her two cents.
“Marianne, you can’t move to Florida. You don’t golf.”
“How about tennis?
“You’re way past the legal limit of cortisone shots,” Shari shot back.
“Face it. Your spine is shrinking. How do you plan to get the ball over the net? Next?”
“Good luck finding a sports bra that’ll hold those puppies up through that crap.”
“Then what’s left? Chair Yoga? Mah Jong with the Jewish widows at the deli? By the way, why is all Jewish deli food beige or gray?”
Shari got that Shari-look in her eye. “Bob’s got a birthday coming up, right?”
“What’s that got to do with Florida?”
“You’re buying yourself golf lessons for Bob’s birthday. You’ve got a few months to take them. Then, on his birthday, you take him golfing and show him you’re ready for the Sunshine State.”
The notion seemed faintly romantic until I remembered the day I met Bob’s brother-in-law, David, who asked, “Do you golf?” Bob chimed in before I could answer. "No. No, she doesn’t."
This was going to be a tough task.
By the time Bob’s birthday rolled around I was ready for an easy round of nine holes—didn’t want to “over impress” him after all.
Imagine his surprise when his surprise gift was a round of golf with me. That was a fun moment. But, he was a trooper and off we went to the links.
With each successful whack of the ball, I let out an excited “Whoop! Whoop!” and did a “Dab” or two.
“Hey, I was only 6 over par on that hole! Whoop! Whoop! Is that still a bogey?”
“No, Marianne,” Bob groaned leaning on his club. “There’s no term for being 6 over par other than being 6 over par. And, can you keep it down with the whoop, whoops? This is golf…not beer pong.”
“But, I’m having so much fun. Geez, not like those guys behind us. They look miserable. Hey, guys! Watch me birdie this next shot!” I yelled at them and waved. They just sat in their carts and stared.
“What’s their problem?” I asked Bob.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they’d like you to take less than 30 minutes to finish a hole so they can get back to the clubhouse before the next presidential election.”
Bob didn’t seem to be having as much fun as I was but I wasn’t going to let that ruin how much I was enjoying his birthday present.
Four hours later we finished the ninth hole. I was exhausted but exhilarated. I shouted one more “Whoop, whoop!” and did a final "Dab" to celebrate. I was now a golfer and could officially move to Florida.
“So, Bob-alu, how’d you like your birthday present?”
“It was a very sweet idea. Torturous…but sweet.”
“Oh, come on. By the time we move to Sarasota, I’ll be much better, I promise.”
“I’m sure you will. But, I won’t be golfing with you.” He sighed when he saw my disappointment and then said, “Marianne, I love you and you know that. But, I have to tell you the truth. You’re too LOUD for golf.”
The carts with the foursome who were behind us rolled by overhearing Bob.
They looked right at me with their first smile of the day and together said, “Yes. Yes, she is.” Then they let out a loud “Whoop! Whoop!” One of them even did the "Dab."
Mah Jong at the deli it is. Pass the pastrami.