Bean Loves Golf

Years ago I wrote a post about the Poons trying to teach me to golf. I had new clubs from some stint I did as an editor of a luxury magazine. Those same delicious Chocolate Moda golf clubs made an appearance this past spring as Skip departed some wisdom. Blue and plaid checkered golf bags and accessories...dee-lish.

"You have these great clubs, but you suck at golfing. We can't go together until you learn. Let's sign you up for some community lessons."

And so we did. I went to weekly lessons and listened to a golf pro and then came home to share my new knowledge. I wore cute skirts and bright outfits I bought just for golfing to make it fun. That knowledge was then tweaked by the man I married who claimed to know more than me because he's played on elite courses around the world and was editor of Luxury Golf & Travel. Whatever. I vaguely remember him looking quizzically as I summarized lessons and then politely telling me I'd misunderstood.

 With the pressure of girly looking clubs and professional lessons I invested in a golf outfit: skirt, shoes, shirt. Then I waited for our cold May to warm up. My perfect outfit never made it to a golf lesson, but I just knew that mid-June would be filled with golf dates. I even prepped some of our couple friends for Saturday outings. When June came my dates were with the toilet and standing in the unbearable heat, impossible. Who knew pregnancy would come so soon? And with such utter disregard for my summer plans. 

I didn't make it for golf dates in July, August or September. In October Skip found camo more appealing than pleats and it wasn't until a cold November weekend that we finally had a golf date. I enthusiastically laid out my perfect golf outfit and addressed the cold weather with some long johns. The first layer went well, but by the second all the tugging and adjusting didn't make up for the fact that my stomach was three sizes too big. Pretty soon I was in my goose down snowboard jacket and beanie. But we had a grand time and on the 18th, I ripped one with my eight iron that actually looked remarkedly like a decent ball strike and Skip was shocked.

Our golf date turned into our first family outing.

Silly Poons, Golf is for Girls

Chocolate Moda. Yum! And I’m taking about my new golf clubs, which is funny because as a child I always thought of golf as an old man’s sport. Then I entered the corporate world and learned that golf is the powerhouse sport (and the anti-sport sport–it goes against all my natural instincts and yet I'm best when I'm not concentrating on the 50 billion left foot planted, straight back, locked arm, immobile head rules).

According to the heads of my office, and the many random PR people I conversed with, golf is the one sport I should play. I shook my head for months and continued to push volleyball. I worked with some tall athletic guys and just knew we’d have a killer co-ed team, or at least I could groom one of them for an outdoor partner this summer. Turns out they thought grass while I thought sand. So I caved. Don’t hate me, it was four against one.

It also helped that the new clubs I got are gorgeous, or pretty as the boys say. If only my swing were pretty too. I’m working on it. With the tips from the office crew (seriously they had me practice my stance everyday and after a month or two of that I was verbally taught how to swing) I was well on my way to being a wreck on the course. Actually they were helpful so when the Poons stepped in I was on prodigy level.

The Poons are a group of SLC boys who grew up together. My older brother was inducted because of his mad basketball skills and blood relations. Who knew that it would benefit me throughout my stay in Utah. A couple days ago one of the Poons called about his sweatshirt I’ve been storing for the past few months. Deciding we should get together he asked me if I golfed. No….but yes! I told him I was reading golf for dummies but would love to hit some balls. We met at the driving range and he was blown away with the speed at which I learned. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my office coaching. So there he was thinking I’m a prodigy and he’s the world’s greatest natural coach.

Or I was thinking that for him and he was drooling over my clubs. It’s a response I’m accustomed to. Every boy has admired them. Creeping up for a closer look and shyly asking if they can hit with my clubs, because “they’re just so cute!” And I thought I was the girl. Go ahead boys hit away, but I get to take them home.