Shoes had been offering to take me to the driving range since we started dating; but, in the midst of our long distance mayhem, it was one activity that fell to the wayside.
Until a couple of weeks ago.
Shoes is an excellent golfer. I mean, tournament winning excellent (and he would be upset to read that; however, since he doesn't read this blog ... ;)). Right before the 4th of July, we went to the East Moreland Golf Course here in Portland so he could teach the basic of the basics.
And basically, I stunk. So badly. As in, I kept hitting the ball low and to the right. And almost hitting people. That's when I asked Shoes to trade me places. I thought he would be more apt to forgive me for a ball injury. Luckily, it never happened. It awoke the terrible perfectionist in me, however, and I wanted to try again and again and again ... I think Shoes bought 3 big bucket of balls that day without questioning. And without complaint.
Over the 4th, we went to the golf course with his dad, which consisted of me picking up my ball and walking (and continually asking why the snack cart lady had the 4th off).
On Shoes' last visit, we went back to the driving range, and it finally felt like something started to click. Nothing spectacular - my goals are very reasonable - but I started to hit the balls in a beautiful straight line past the 75 yard mark (nothing spectacular!). Shoes gathered a bunch of his old clubs for me, got me one of their old golf bags, loaded me up with golf balls and tees and smiled gently at all my effort. This one? I just adore him.
I think this is good. I think I need a hobby like this. My days are filled with hospital politics (gulp), my classes had titles such as "End of Life and Palliative Care" and Social Policy (I'm going to a suicide prevention training on 9/10 that I think will be excellent ..). These are good, altruistic, fascinating things for me. Really.
And they're also so very heavy. And I'm a very serious person who's just now, at 32, coming to grips with the fact that I am way too serious.
I took a golf lesson last week. Remember the movie "Office Space?" I don't remember the character's name, but there's a guy on there who is a perpetual mumbler. The golf instructor? That guy. Could barely understand a word he was saying. But he was patient. And what he said made sense, only, it completely makes no sense when I try to follow his instructions.
But that's ok. I'm ready to stink for a loooooong time.
Another golf story?
Shoes is playing in a Vineyard town game with a bunch of the guys from the County. A former supervisor (of mine) from when I used to work in juvenile detention thought it would be the funniest thing to put a guy I dated for about 6 weeks on Shoes' foursome.
This is why I NEED Shoes to move here so we never, never have to return to the Vineyard Town as a couple. I told him I would pay for him to move here to be my personal golf pro, but he declined (probably because I offered to pay him in snuggles and affirmations). Shoes says, "Give me 700 days and I'll move there."
Oy. These days ...
So. I'll keep golfing and Shoes will keep helping me and at some point, I'll learn how to really follow through to get that *&;^% ball where I want it to go.