Golf Gone Wrong

A couple of years ago my friend Sandy and I decided to join a women’s golf clinic.  It’s not like we are avid golfers or anything, as matter of fact we really stink.   Golf also really isn’t our “thing”. Think about it, prior to Tiger, golf was known as an “old man sport”, and there certainly isn’t anything appealing about a bunch of old men wearing funny pants, chasing a tiny ball across acres.

I joined this clinic for two reasons:  The first reason is that a coworker’s wife was the one starting it, and I felt kind of pressured.  Secondly, I figured it would be something different, and constructive to do with my spare time, plus I was super pumped about wearing little plaid shorts and knee socks!  Sandy joined because I begged her too.

We had completed a few golf sessions, and had an okay time, but it felt as if something was missing.   Ahhh yes, cocktails. Now don’t go getting on your high horse or anything, and judge me.  I’m not an alcoholic by any means. I just believe some activities are more fun with a cocktail in hand; i.e. golf.

We discussed our idea with the other ladies in the clinic, and found that we weren’t the only ones who felt this way. We all agreed that it would defiantly improve our game, and if it didn’t it would make the experience a little more fun.  We had begun “cocktailing” every week on the golf course, the golf clinic had become so much more fun, and my game had even improved a bit. 

One week in particular however things went horribly wrong.  It began like any other day that I had golf clinic.  I went home after work, changed into one of my get ups, and headed to the liquor store.  I was always so embarrassed when I went into the store to buy the tiny little bottles of Vodka.  I feel like the tiny bottles just screams drunkard.  I always felt the need to explain to the clerk, that I was on my way to golf and these fit into the golf bag better, but I’m sure he thinks they are in my purse and I drink them straight up at work… oh well can’t win them all.

I show up at the course… walk in the back, mix my drink, and jump into the golf cart with Sandy.  I should note that while I bought the tiny bottles of vodka, Sandy brought a liter.  Yes she sure did and placed it right into the cup holder in the cart.  I’m sure the real golfers looked at us with pure disgust as we zoomed by them in our vodka mobile.  Now this is how I remember the next part.  I was golfing, yada yada yada, we ran out of cran-apple juice, yada yada yada, and then I woke up in my bed at home the next morning.  No lie, that’s exactly how the memory (or lack off) goes. 

I woke up a little confused, as I was in my pajamas, and I smelled really good like my soap and shampoo. 

I looked over at the clock; it was 6:30 am. I closed my eyes and tried really hard to remember what happened… Nada.   My husband was in the shower, so I leaped out of bed, and ran towards the windows in the front of the house.  I looked out and let out a sigh of relief.  Okay, the car was here and parked remarkably well in its parking spot.   Huh, well I made it home safely, parked the car properly, and managed to shower… hmmm I couldn’t possibly have been that hammered.  I was headed back into the room to get ready for work, when I thought I should just double check with Sandy before I went in pretending like I knew what happened the night before in front of my husband.  God Forbid I was wrong.

Me:  Hey Sandy, you up?

Sandy:  Yeah, how you feeling?

Me: I feel fine why?

Sandy: what do you mean why?

Me:  Ummm I don’t remember what happened.

Sandy: Nothing?

Me:  Was I hammered? How did you let me drive home?

Sandy:  OMG, Yes you were super hammered. I don’t know what happened it just hit you all of a sudden, and I didn’t let you drive bitch, I drove you home. You couldn’t even drive the golf cart anymore.

Me: What I was that hammered?? What did I do? Wait if you drove me home how did my car get home? Did one of the other girls bring it?

Sandy:  Umm you almost threw up on Dean (our golf pro), and no your husband drove it home.

Me: Fuck my Life.

Sandy: Good Luck Babes, I’ll talk to you later.

I felt so sick to my stomach after I hung up the phone.  I looked at my bedroom door like a death row inmate looks at the electric chair.  He was going to freaking kill me. 

I walked in smiling, even though I felt a sudden wave of nausea.   Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.  I tried to explain that I didn’t know what in the world happed, that got me so bombed.   My body chemistry must have been off that day or something, and that I was really sorry.

He said he wasn’t really mad, as he was sure I learned my lesson from the amount that I threw up. (I had no clue what he was talking about, but agreed anyway).  I assumed at this point that the vomiting probably didn’t go well, which led to my shower and the reason why I didn’t feel sick or hung over this morning was because I had been in bed and passed out since 7:30pm.         

                                                                                                                                                     

Golf clinic ended shortly after, and Sandy and I haven’t stepped foot onto a golf course together since.  We doing our drinking now a days in controlled environments that we are familiar with, like bars.