I don’t know anything more frustrating than golf.
Well, maybe writing. Or raising kids. Or having your car break down. OK, there are other things more annoying. But for sheer ‘I want to take this club and wrap it around your neck’ frustration, golf takes the cake. One minute the balls are sailing right on target, the next they are swerving right or left, or plowing through the grass in front of you.
My husband is a golfer. He usually plays off a 5 handicap. He’s also very patient and has good advice. But when your ball has just taken a dive into the lake on your left, the last thing you want to hear is, “You lifted your head up.”
Smiling and muttering under my breath, I tee up and swing again. This time the ball careens off a nearby tree and disappears into the rough. The rough is what is next to the fairway. The fairway is where you want your ball to go. The rough is, as its name implies, rough. And balls that fall in there usually vanish forever.
And my husband says, “You’re swinging too fast. Slow down.”
Slow down? What I want to do is scream. Instead I clench my teeth, smile, (after all, it must be torture for him to play with me) and I tee up a third time and hit a perfect shot down the fairway.
“Well, that’s better.” Hubby smiles.
I wish I knew HOW I DID THAT. But I have no idea. That’s golf. Some shots are great, others are in the lake. And in two weeks I have a tournament. Argh!

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