So, You Married a Golfer

First off, you are not alone. There are many of us and this is a safe space. Let’s retrace your steps. Maybe that will bring clarity and explain why you are not a victim, but a willing participant of your circumstance.

Remember that first date? You’d never dated a golfer before. There were guys who played high school football and baseball, and that one who played water polo in college, but this date was your first dalliance into the golf world- and it was awkward. All you said was you knew nothing about golf, then he launched into a monologue. You smiled, nodded and wondered if you were a pervert for giggling when he used the words “shaft, head, ball, and hole” in a sentence.

Your first time on the golf course was fun. He let you drive the cart! The putting green felt like the right opportunity to wow him with your acrobatic skills, but you quickly learned cartwheels on delicate greens are frowned upon.

The years went on, as did his oral dissertations about the game. He relived each round with you, hole by hole. If you could go back, maybe you wouldn’t have been such an engaged, patient listener. Dating darlings beware: too much enthusiasm will only encourage him to keep talking. Assess your schedule. Decide how much time you’re willing to sacrifice for his romantic ramblings about golf.

After his PGA Tour dreams were dashed, he married you and resigned to life as an amateur. Luckily, he still has ample opportunities to play. And it’s lucrative! It seems golf and gambling go hand in hand and are much more acceptable than spending money at say, Target or a nail salon. Yes, golf gambling can always be justified. He was making money for the family. It was basically work.

When he strolls out the door for his rounds, clad in colorful, coordinated ensembles complete with belt and hat, keep your chin up, sister. You look great in those leggings and that Dolly Parton T-shirt. As for your hair, scrunchies have totally made a comeback.

When he shows off his new golf balls, you take a moment to marvel. You squint your eyes slightly, feigning concentration as he yammers on about spin, the feel, or something. You may even throw out a comment like, “Wow, that Bridgestone B really brings out the dimples in the ball.” You are the coolest.

As he kisses you goodbye, he says he’ll see you in a few hours. Oh, but you know better. An average round lasts four hours. Then there’s the drive - 30 minutes there, 30 minutes back. Plus, he’ll likely get there early to warm-up. Also, there may be an emergency, also known as an E-9, when he and the guys must play an extra nine holes. You grit your teeth and say “sure, a few hours. I’ll just be here, doing everything. Have fun!”

He often texts throughout his round to give you live updates. As he raves about the gorgeous weather and brags about his birdies, you resist shooting a birdie of your own and mention nothing of your current chaos. You don’t want to mess with his precious juju, nope, not you. So, you send a thumbs up emoji, a kissy face emoji and a message like “watch out, Tiger!” This reminds him that you’re both supportive and adorable.

Over time you became an expert on his routine- the whole song and dance he performs at each tee. You call it the “shimmy and set.” He stands five feet back from the ball. He narrows his gaze, takes in the hole before him, and walks evenly paced steps, like a member of the Queen’s Guard. He turns and snaps into position, bending his upper body over the ball, fingers laced around the club. He readjusts, pinching the seams on his shoulders and pulling his shirt up a notch because…you have no idea why. His shoulders bounce slightly, his hips roll just a touch, he breathes and swings (dear God, finally). You don’t bother watching the ball- his body language tells you everything. If it’s a bad swing, he immediately walks away from the tee (see also: cusses or throws club in lake). But, if the swing is good, he becomes Mary Poppins: toe popped, chin up, broad smile, golf club twirls and lands on his shoulder.

The 19th hole often beckons and what a dud he’d be to miss out, but, get excited, he has great news to share when he walks through the door.

“We’re planning a big weekend away,” he says.

You look up from the pee stain you’re scrubbing out of the carpet. Thank God! A trip! He really is the best.

“Yeah,” he continues, “the guys and I are going to Florida for a weekend- 36 holes a day. Oh, and we know a guy, so we’ll be playing for free.”

Your nostrils flare and foam bubbles at the corners of your mouth as you grab your phone and furiously text your friends.

“Does no one have hook ups for, like, anything? A beach house? A condo in the city? A room over a garage somewhere? And can we please find a hobby? Tennis? A wine club? Bar hopping? Something that lasts a minimum of six hours?”

So, there are five big tournaments each year that he must watch. You agreed to this in the prenuptial agreement. There’s the British Open, The U.S. Open, the PGA Championship, the Players Championship and, of course, The Masters, when you will dress the family in coordinating green ensembles and serve pimento cheese sandwiches with Arnold Palmers. And, though he did not shed a tear when your third child was born, Jim Nantz’ dramatic voiceover at the beginning of the tournament coverage…Hello, friends…will make him weep. His eyes will glisten when the champion pumps a triumphant fist in the air. He may even refer to the victory as a team effort. “We did it,” he’ll say, because, you know, telepathy.

This is your life now. This is what you chose and these are the habits you supported, you poor little lamb. You were so eager through the dating years, smiling, listening, golf clapping. Now -  aren’t you cute - you’re a golfer’s wife. You’ve only got yourself to blame.