A few of the neighborhood ladies started our four-session golf clinic with the pro at our local course last night, yours truly included.
(I bet said pro is still shaking his head in disbelief, by the way.)
(You should have been there to catch the look on his face when I half-waddled, half-galumphed into the pro-shop with my clubs, huffing and puffing, stuffed into my neon green polo shirt like a sweaty little sausage, and he realized - This is one of my STUDENTS!)
Have you ever tried to swing a golf club with a watermelon strapped to your belly and the girls all up under your armpits?
Awkward, to say the least.
I was practically lyin' flat on my face out there on the soggy turf, y'all, tryin' to get myself far enough back from the ball that my arms didn't come to a shuddering full stop mid-swing, hung up on the protuberance of my mid-section. No doubt I was a sight to behold -- bump stuck out front, bummy stuck out back, bouncing around in my knees like my Grandaddy Clover always did, and taught me to do, back when I was fourteen and found myself under his jovial but exacting tutelage in my first few forays onto a golf course. Gotta bounce til you just FEEL right in your stance.
Or until your adjusted and precarious center of gravity causes you to slump over face-first into your mud-caked, splintering tee.
You know, whichever comes first.
Zen and the Art of the Five Iron.
But OHMYGRANNY, did we have the fun. And the laughs. And! We actually made contact with a few golf balls, too. With our CLUBS.
And then we all went out for greasy fried food and fruity drinks with umbrellas.
A perfectly blissful evening, in my book.
Y'all play golf?