For those of you who know me, golf wear is not the first thing that comes on the radar when you think of me. Thank god. I'm a ruffle, wear your lingerie on the outside kind of girl. My sisters say if I get dementia I'll turn into Little Bo Peep. I'm ok with that.
I committed a few months ago to a fundraising golf tournament with Paco. Sure, I thought. I mean I played mini golf at Putter's Park next to KMark for my ninth birthday. No problem.
I tried to plan a golf wardrobe. I thought leggings and a black tank top. Perfect right? Please back me up. Black is always good. After a minor anxiety attack, I ended up in a sports store and bought a white stretchy skirt as a compromise. Fuck.
The morning of the event, I proudly came out in my white skirt and a strappy black top ready to hit those stupid golf balls for the sake of love, and his family did a collective "oh dear didn't anyone tell you?" glance. Apparently you have to wear a collared shirt on a golf course. More confirmation on why I never embraced golf.
So off we went back to the sports store where I purchased...wait for it...a golf shirt. In red. No black to be found. And to make matters even worse. It was polyester. Dear lord. It was shaping up to be an interesting day. And I might add, the hottest day of the whole freaking summer. I could have been dockside in my bikini. Speaking of which is a fabulous fuchsia JCrew suit circa nineteen ninety nine. The elastic is shot but I can't part with it. Oops, I digress.
On the drive there, I strip half naked and wriggle into my polyester shirt. Collar and all. As we pull into the golf course parking lot there is a sign which reads Proper Golf Attire Required. I interpret this as really saying only white people wearing collars are allowed. WTF?
As I get out of the car I'm certain everyone will be staring and pointing because I feel like I look like a freak in my stretchy outfit but nobody notices. In fact someone compliments me. I'm in an altered universe.
But then the real fun begins. We get to drive a golf cart through a spectacularly beautiful wilderness course. I decide the putter is my favourite club for whacking the ball. That is, when I can actually hit it. And much to my relief Paco is not a golf star but he sure likes driving that cart in a reckless manner. It's fun even though my clothes are now stuck to me.
We wrap the game up in late afternoon sunshine and I head straight to the bar.
I survived. There were prizes none of which were for best dressed. Paco and I are a couple of losers and we kind of like it that way.
I can't say I'll be dashing out to sign up for golfing lessons anytime soon so if there's anyone out there that needs a red collared polyester shirt please send me a message.