I have a confession to make: I have taken up GOLF. Now that I have risen from my sick bed and have started to feel restless, I began looking for an activity commensurate with my new status in life. (That new status has a dual nature—it’s called being ALIVE and realizing I’m living in SeniorLand.)
I had played golf ‘way, ‘way back when I was a teenager and in my twenties. I remember that the golf course was absolutely the best place ever devised to find teenage boys. It’s the same now but the teenagers are retirees—I’ve already had at least 4 free golf lessons by men who “want to help.” I also am offered rides in golf carts, help carrying my bucket of balls—but wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
I rummaged around in the basement and found my old set of clubs. I dusted them off and drove to the golf course. (SeniorLand has two golf courses) At the pro shop I asked for a bucket of balls. “And do you want large or small balls, ma’am?” And innocent moi replied, “I thought golf balls only came in one size—I’ll take the regular-sized balls.” Well! Several of the pro shop patrons just hooted right out loud. And that, dear readers, was only the beginning.
(He had been referring to the SIZE of the BUCKET of balls)They spotted the clubs I was carrying. These clubs had been custom-made around 1970. The woods are WOOD. The irons are numerous. The head covers are hand-knitted with cute little pompoms on them. I was the object of derision. I was not amused. Without going into detail I will also mention that the spikes on my golf shoes were not even allowed in the club house! These golf shoes were practically new—well, they were new in 1970 and only worn a few times. One would have thought I had appeared at the links via a time machine.
Before I could cause anymore astonishment I fled the clubhouse. I have more to relate but it will have to wait for the next posting.
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