A Slice of Heaven

by Paula Anderson • More.com Member { View Profile }

It was just a 9-hole par 3 course, but oh what a challenge it was. You’ll need to know right away that I have never been much of a golfer (and that is the understatement of the century but let’s just go with it for now). I had clubs, but I had no idea why. My husband (we’re not married anymore, which had nothing to do with my lack of golf prowess) must have bought them for me with hopes of me gaining interest in the game (or whatever you call it — sport? I hardly think so).

My idea of a "good round of golf" is driving along in a golf cart with the walkers (I mean golfers) with their clubs and a cooler of beer. And by the way, when I’m driving you’ll need to grab the club you need now and the club you’ll need for your next shot because if I find a good spot to soak up some rays, you won’t see me for a while. I’ve been known to miss a hole or so. But whatever. Get OVER it already and just use your 1 wood all the time like I do. I’ve found that it provides the best odds of connecting with the ball.

So anyway, we were golfing on this par 3, right? I can’t remember for sure which hole it was on, but I hit the ball (which is a big deal in and of itself) and it sliced to the right. Not just a little slice. It was a humongous slice into the opposite lane thingy (apparently the lanes are called fairways or whatever).

"FORE!" That’s what you holler when you want to give all the walkers (I mean golfers) a heads up to watch out for flying balls (sounds like a fun game, right?) Since I was a new "golfer," my husband cut me a little slack and let me hit another ball. And rightly so. I mean what’s a golf ball cost anyway? Fifty cents? (Might I remind you that we aren’t married anymore?)

Using my 1 wood (can’t understand why it’s called a "wood" when it’s made out of some sort of silver-looking material) I made contact (another big deal) and the ball went left (also known apparently as a hook. Whatever, it went left, OK) into the other fairway. My husband said we should pick up the balls and keep going. I looked at him as if he had a 3rd arm sprouting and said, "Pick them up? They’re golf balls! What’d’ they cost like fifty cents a piece?! I’m not gonna go pick them up. Just gimme another one."

Speaking of 3rd arms sprouting. He probably could have used a 3rd arm because he carried his bag and my bag, and picked up a few of the foul balls too. Although my bag couldn’t have been very heavy — it only had a few essential clubs (i.e., putter, 1 wood and 5 iron, which I don’t consider essential at all!), I’m sure it can’t be fun to walk around with two cumbersome bags strapped to your shoulders. But I wouldn’t know about that.

And then there was this little pond.

Once when we were there I managed to hit my ball riiiiiiight over it on the first try, which caused issues ever after. I didn’t want to hit around the obstacle. I wanted to hit my ball over the obstacle. I mean, isn’t my enjoyment worth at least six or seven golf balls? Hand ‘em over.

My poor husband (have I mentioned that we’re not married anymore?). Sometimes I feel sorry for men. But I will say this; he said that being married to me was like being in heaven. Isn’t that sweet? (I’m probably paraphrasing. He might have said something more like he needs to get a new pastor because being married to me isn’t what he was told heaven would be like. I just can’t remember for sure.)

Anyhew to finish the story. It was a par-3, so before you know it, we were done. But the last hole had a really gigantic tree at the end that managed to catch my ball right between its roots, thereby rendering it hit-less. What? A ball of mine rendered hit-less? So I went to pick it up (all fifty cents worth!) and move it just a little or toss it into the fairway perhaps or somehow get it to a hittable position. When I bent down to grab the stupid ball, a bird pooped right on the back of my hand!

That’s gotta be a metaphor for something.

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