One of our friends popped over at the weekend to borrow some golf clubs. He’s a thoughtful chap, analytical and possessed of a dry wit. You know, solid sort of guy.
We got to talking about the husband’s upcoming birthday, as is often the case I discover in the course of the conversation, there is a 36 hole golf tournament coming up on the grand day of the naissance.
Clearly this is a conundrum for my thoughtful husband, who’s grappling with the question of whether it’s ok to play 36 holes of golf on his birthday? He looks sideways at me and then to his mate for support.
Faster than I can sneeze, our friend simply says “depends what you want for your birthday.”
We all pause to let all the ulterior undertones sink in, and now I’m curious.
Is the likelihood of marital relations correlated to whether or not he plays golf? Does it matter if it’s 9, 18 or 36 holes of golf?
After 36 holes of golf if the weather’s as hot as it is now, he’ll be face-planting his dinner and fine NZ pinot noir like the groomsmen at an English wedding, so perhaps the weather may have more of a bearing than the golf per se.
For him golf is a hobby he enjoys mostly away from the rest of the family. Frustrating and infuriating as the game is, the golf course is his sanctuary, and almost every time he comes home from golf he’s a happier person for it. He seems to relax and exhale the drama of family life. When you have three tween/teen boys, a reformed investment banker wife trying to live a calmer, creative life, you need
some a shitload of headspace to stay sane and possess a degree of calm, in order to facilitate the vital activities of mindful parenting and husband-ing.
The three boys have varying degrees of interest in golf, and whilst I can just about swing a club and once almost got a hole-in-one at the pitch and putt, (see pic) there are so many other things I’d rather do. Like write and bury my head in a book. Or run along the beach. Sometimes.
It seems golf is it (along with cycling). As evidenced by the inventory: three sets of Ping, Callaway, and Mizuno golf clubs, three golf bags of varying degrees of portability, mini golf sets (left and right handed for the kids), multiple pairs of tired looking, odd shaped shoes with spiky bits on the bottom lying around the house for the puppy to chew, loose Titleists, Srixons, Callaways rolling around the boot of the car, and more front lawn divots than a kitchen colander.
Not to mention the crazy pants and the never ending tv commentary; it seems there is ALWAYS a golf competition of major proportions and epic prize money contention, on somewhere in the world, at a time of day of your choice. Mostly men in tight pants with loud patterns, and overhanging belly balconies, frowning severely at a nicely manicured field of green with a tiny hole in the far corner. Or ladies with very short skirts but that’s another topic.
I just reminded him about the hole-in-one whilst writing this, “huh,” he says “you ain’t ever gunna get a hole in one on a par 4.” Right then, consider that a challenge. Humph.
So the answer to the question from my perspective, is yes of course my dearest, you should play golf on your birthday.
What do you think?