Golf: A mind game…
Fact: The game of golf induced bizarre behavior not just on the course.
For an entire month, I passed the coffee maker in favor of the computer. This behavior was beyond abnormal for me who believed a chic outfit was accessorized with a matching coffee mug.
I didn’t embrace technology like I embraced a freshly diapered baby or a bowl of chocolate covered strawberries. The computer and I had a hate/hate relationship. I’d forget my cell phone or leave it at home on purpose and not experience separation anxiety.
The reason for my month long computer love was because I was going to win new golf equipment for me and four friends and a round of golf on four of Florida’s top courses of my choice. The Irish golf great, Graeme McDowell, was to accompany me on one of those rounds!
Notice I didn’t say I hoped to win. No, I was the mistress of this contest. It belonged to me. I owned it. My golf outfits were chosen and pulled from winter storage. My bags packed. I’d golf in the winter, with new equipment, and with a guy who had an accent. Oh yeah, and with the people I brought.
Everyday, I entered my name and email address online. I patiently waited for my airfare and hotel vouchers to arrive.
Except, Graeme McDowell didn’t pick me, I reeled from the snub and drowned my sorrow in Guinness.
My husband said, “Millions of people entered. A computer picked the winner.”
I was bummed and couldn’t believe my fate rested with a lousy machine. There had to be more to it. On the bottom of the contest home page was a box to enter your friends email addresses. I didn’t have girlfriends who golf. If I did, I wouldn’t have wanted the competition. I did have a girlfriend whose husband golfed and considered selling out his email for marketing purposes, but I couldn’t chance thirty more entries against me.
If I wasn’t such a numbskull, hell bent on coveting this dream opportunity, I would’ve sold out my girlfriends email addresses, remembering they didn’t golf. Regardless, my name must have been deemed ineligible and kicked out of the system.
What if the people who ran the contest screened contestants? I’d have been doomed with my golf reputation. My errant shots had hit a rope, a shed, trees, a bridge, a ball washer, and my husband’s ball, GOLF ball. The ball was on the green one minute then it wasn’t. Oops. I hit a fence which deflected my ball off of a rock, where it ricocheted off a sign, and landed in sheep poop.
Although I’d never hit a person with a golf ball, it was probable after witnessing the sheep poop incident. If Graeme’s people couldn’t have him chance a concussion before his next major, they kicked my name out of the system.
My husband said, “you’re nuts. They can’t screen millions of people.”
I’m nuts so I was kicked out of the system.
Maybe I accidentally entered twice in one day and was kicked out of the system.
Maybe they held the two days I missed entering against me and was kicked out of the system. Uncle Albert why’d you die during golf contest month? Why was the funeral held in a place with no wifi?
What if Graeme thought, “I can’t face eighteen holes with a bunch of loopy lasses (or however Irish people say crazy bitches in a nice way).” There wasn’t a box to explain I didn’t have golf girlfriends. I’d have golfed with my husband, dad, and brother. Without the chance to explain, I was kicked out of the system.
My husband was right. I was insane. He knew I wasn’t all there when he married me, so he must be insane too.
I took my chance on playing a round (of golf) with Graeme and believed I’d win. Whenever I stepped onto the first tee, I believed I’d make par. Ha ha ha ha ha….. Seriously, there’s something wrong with me.
On the bright side, I wouldn’t be in the poor house because I was the loser who had to buy all the rounds of Guinness.