Miss Golf Greenhorn 2011

When you're new at something people call you a rookie, a novice or from my husband's favorite reality show, Deadliest Catch, a greenhorn.  I've personified all of these adjectives this week in a random assortment of activities. To say that I am a newbie at golf is a catastrophic understatement.

On Monday I played in our firm's golf outing - the second time I've played in the outing and the second time I've played golf, as one of those Disney-Nickelodeon teens would say, like, ever! There was that time that my college chapter of Women in Communications had a pro-lesson at the local golf course and the time my husband tolerated taking me to the driving range early in our marriage purely out of necessity so he could prep for an upcoming round. But other than that, I am a golf greenhorn.

NOT ME.

I was sort of dreading the day and spent more time figuring out what I would wear (I do have really cute golf shoes) than practicing my swing.  I didn't want to 1.) Sweat so much that I soak my clothes and pass out from the heat and humidity like one of those Civil War era women in a corset and bonnet, 2.) Embarrass myself into oblivion by tripping on a root, falling down a ravine or into a pond, or 3.) Golf.  You see, I am pretty bad but I can hit it occasionally (not far) and put in one or two puts (I think that's called Birdie). Anyhow, I was stressed, anxiety-ridden (if you read my blogs on a regular basis, you are probably now thinking that this woman needs some help as 'stressed and anxiety are a reoccurring theme) and already sweaty and uncomfortable just sitting in the cart waiting to leave for our first hole. Thankfully the group I was, er, playing, golf with was comprised of all men and pretty good at the game. When I say pretty good, I mean they wear special gloves, have GPS's to calculate distance for each hole, feature tags from dozens of local courses on their golf bags, and drive the ball like a PGA pro, etc... Compared to me, who, didn't even know what those containers of sand on the back of our carts were. Oh - for pouring into those huge holes I was making in the manicured green. Now I get it, he-he-he, oops, ahem. 

Thankfully, these gentlemen, who I only knew from occasional business interaction were patient, helpful and really out to have a good time. When I wanted to fake small pox and stay back at the office, my colleagues came through. They put up so well with my horrible technique and crappy putting and with having to tell me every time which club to use. I heard that they finished up OK that afternoon and weren't completely and utterly embarrassed (they kept that well-hidden) by how much I drug them down, as I had to leave early to pick up the boys (it's true, I really I did.) I was surprised by my teammates' (I'm sure that's not the correct terminology) patience and happy as Gilmore that I put on my big girl pants (khaki Capri's), pushed myself and played on Monday. I really am. LPGA here I come.