I Am Not A Tiger

Yes it's true, I am not a Tiger. And no, this is not in any way, a reference to my lovestruck cat nightmare. This is about my own pathetic unspoken dream to discover within myself an as yet untapped talent and thus spend quality time with my husband.

Tom golfs. Gee, you say, a white republican approaching middle age who golfs? How can such a thing be true? But it is true, take my word for it. He golfs and so I thought perhaps I could learn to golf too. This is not an unprecedented idea. I used to work with a woman ( horrifying woman, always picking on me) who met her second husband, went to the driving range with him one day during the early "Oh I can't stand to be away from you for a minute, Snookums" phase of their relationship, and somehow ended up hitting 300 yard drives consistently.

So leave it to me to think that if Skari Shari can do it, I can do it too. After all, I have no known talents so I must have hidden talents, right? But alas, golf does not seem to be one. I do, however, have the unsurpassed ability to hit the tee out from under a golf ball, all the time swinging my entire body around in a full circle, and all while carefully keeping my knees slightly bent and my hips bent but not too bent. I have perfect form, I just can't hit the damn ball. Well, I can hit it some of the time. I can hit it into the creek ten yards away. I can hit it into another ball only three yards away (which would come in handy if only there were a golf / billiards combination sport). And I can hit it between my feet and behind me some thirty-odd feet. But I cannot hit it anywhere near the cute white signs marking where a decent drive is supposed to go. I can't even hit it in the right direction.

I had visions of Tom standing behind me, his arms around me, his hands over mine, teaching me how to follow through with my swing. What I got was grabbed from behind only once, and told my grip was all wrong as he twisted me like an owl's head, leaving my bra crooked when he let go. The rest of the time he ignored me to hit his own bucket of balls, only watching me long enough to snort at my attempts to HIT THAT DAMNED BALL! Yes, he snorted. At me. His wife. His loving and supportive wife who only wanted to play this damned game to be closer to him and who became increasingly frustrated and ended up digging little hamster graves four inches behind the tees.

My dream of being part of a husband and wife twosome, golfing our way across the country by way of beautiful expensive PGA approved courses, has been dashed. At best I can hope to be the half drunk bored housewife who takes lessons twice a week from the local has-been club pro. Too bad I have morals too high to hire some hot young blond stud to teach me.