so I said YES

Ladies Golf Union front door — St. Andrews, Scotland

I have volunteered to do something at the golf club, even though as recently as three mornings ago, I voiced that maybe not playing golf for one year would be a good thing — I have voiced that a few times in the last three or four years. I was savoring a sticky bun and might have been in a moment of weakness. But it is something that in the corners of my mind I have thought of doing. So, again, dive right in. Say yes. Take the chance to fail or succeed. Or just be. Why should choices be about either? Now, THAT’S interesting.

Golf is a sport. Let’s get real, right? But it is. It requires a lot of time, perseverance, discipline, consistency, faith, zero doubt, and commitment. The most significant aspect of it (for me) is that I can golf alone, with others with whom I want to play, compete or not, enjoy nature and being outside, and improve my game.

I have seriously considered quitting about four or five times in my life, and then I play out of my shoes (figuratively) = so well that I convince myself it isn’t time yet.

Even bought a bicycle during one of those I’m-taking-a-hiatus-forever days — and I’m afraid of heights, short heights, not high heights. I could get on a plane every day and go (although not recently) on rollercoasters (!). But climb a bicycle or a ladder, or even a step-stool? And a roof? Un-un. Out of my league. I have figured out that the fear is not of heights, but of having nothing to hold on to. And irrational as it may be, I haven’t yet gotten over it. The worst, or funniest one, happened at the top of Mount Vesuvius.

I thought I was at the top when a man with a little girl walked past me. There were about twelve steps cut out of the volcanic rock, but it seemed there was nowhere to go. Yet they disappeared from view. I figured, hey, why not? And after going up six steps my knees gave out from under me, landing me on my butt.

See, on the way up, a log ‘fence’ protected me from the precipice. Ha! Right? (Have another precipice story for another day.) But the ‘fence’ went only as far as the landing preceding the steps. I didn’t realize it, but something inside of me did. So, yep, that’s me, eons ago. Not posing, but frozen, unable to move. I ended up having to be coaxed down and descended the steps on my rear end.

I HAVE SUPER-DIGRESSED

The point is: I enjoy golf, the activity itself more than the social aspect, which is why (1) I have not quit, (2) I’m incredulous at accepting a request to get involved. While I considered it for a minute or two, as I savored the sugary bun, I told my husband: It means I’ll have to be sociable and play nice with other people (might have said with the other kids). He answered, “Oh, that’s not gonna happen! It’ll be a failure.” All I needed to hear, it seems, because I said YES. Really? Did I think for a sweet second that I could prove him wrong? Guess so.

My response was: “I’ll grow up on Tuesdays.”

British Golf Museum — St. Andrews, Scotland
(would LOVE to dress like that for golf!)