So this past weekend when I was in Florida, I played lots of golf with my family. For three days we were out in the hot Florida sun swinging a stick at a tiny ball. And you know what I have to show for it? A sunburn. It looks like I’m wearing a pasty white tee-shirt under all my clothes.
That’s me on the left standing next to my dad. And this was only after Day 1. It got much worse. But I was actually kind of excited. Nothing says athletic to me like a good tan line. Now, I could proudly go back to Connecticut with proof that I had been out in the sun, playing a sport.
Not being modest, I strutted around my office on my first day back like a proud, red, hen (I think hens strut, don’t they?). And anytime anyone would ask how I got so red, I would smile bashfully.
“Oh, you know, I was just out on the golf course too long. You know how that is…” and then I’d laugh that golfer laugh, “yuck, yuck, yuck.”
And sometimes I wouldn’t even wait to be asked. I’d just see someone staring at my tan lines (yes, people stared) and I would kind of stretch and say, “Oh yeah, got the ol’ golfer’s tan…yuck, yuck, yuck.” And sometimes I would follow this up with a little golf swing – hands straight down, twist the hips, swing through.
And it never failed to get the exact response I wanted, “Oh, you play golf?” they would ask.
“Well, I don’t know if I play, but I like to knock the ball around a bit,” I’d respond, adding the little golf swing action as if to prove my golfing skills right there in the mail room.
Yeah, I was feeling pretty good. Sporting my golf tan. Swinging my imaginary golf stick. Yucking it up like a real pro. But then, I was caught off guard. One of our faculty members comes into my office saying he heard I was a golfer.
“Yuck, yuck, yuck…I don’t know about golfer but I’ve been known to play a few rounds every now and then.”
(At this point in the story, lets pause to reflect on my golf history. I do not play golf. I don’t have the patience for it. It frustrates me. I never play. I do own a set of clubs, but have been in my basement for the past three years. The only time I play is when I visit my family once a year and they drag me kicking and complaining – literally – out to play with them.)
“Well, that’s fantastic. You don’t see enough women on the course,” says the faculty member. “Listen, me and two other faculty members are playing this weekend. Why don’t you come with us and be our fourth? I hear you’re pretty good and it would be fun to get out there.”
“Well…I…uh…I….this weekend?…I can’t. My clubs are in the shop. My shoes are broken. My golf glove is torn.” I could not come up with enough excuses fast enough. The faculty member just looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Okay, well, maybe some other time,” he said as he practically ran out of my office.
Man, it is stressful being a faux golfer.