Now, I'm not a golfer, but I have this ethereal sense of what it might be like to spend an entire afternoon peacefully strolling around the links, following a little white ball wherever it leads, warm sun on my shoulders, fresh air coursing through my body, and a carpet of perfect green cushioning my feet. The golfers on TV always look so composed -- their creases crisp, their whites white. Like a Tide commercial. From what the guys at work tell me, it's nothing like that.
In fact, the picture they paint is so anti-empyrean, it almost makes me think we're talking about two different pastimes. Perhaps in the high-gloss, cherry wood, sound-deadened bowels of the country club locker room, men are taught to speak ill of the game they are so desperately drawn toward. A brer rabbit sort of stratagem that leaves wives thinking their absentee husbands have gotten a rigorous aerobic workout, slogging through the gooey muck of water traps and fighting their way back from the soul-sucking sands of the underworld. Then again, maybe golf wives know.
Maybe they have their own agendum. Maybe they enjoy the solace of a Myrtle Beach excursion...for him, and a few days shopping, reading, and spa-ing for them! Maybe they like having a whole day to themselves, walking in and out of the bathroom just to see if the seat is still down! Maybe they know 4-1/2 hours in the hot sun, throwing back Stellas (or, as the Brits call them: "wifebeaters") and frantically trying to place a willful little ball in a distant plastic cup can lessen a golfer's life expectancy and increase a widow's net worth.
Hmmm...maybe middle aged men would be better off taking up cribbage or something a little less...shall we say, Utopian?
P.S. This movie is rated "G." Unfortunately, it is only playing at a limited number of theaters. But, all kidding aside, I will be seeing it THIS WEEKEND. So, I'll let you know...