Slippery when wet

Golf is my summertime passion.  Once the weather gets warmer and the chaos of tax season is over, I’m ready to turn in my bowling ball for a golf club.  This summer, 4:30 most afternoons will find me at the driving range of the Longboat Key Golf Club smacking balls as far as my little chicken arms can send them. We are spending the summer with my in-laws and they are members.  I do have to say, I am extremely intimidated by the atmosphere at the club.  No one at the bowling alley ever runs up to my car and insists on carrying my ball to my lane.  When I’m done bowling, there is never a little guy standing at the ready with a crisp white towel waiting to wipe down my ball and put it in my locker for me.  There is a lady at the club that comes to the driving range a lot of afternoons as well.  She is probably somewhere in her 60’s, trim and toned, nicely tanned, has a beautiful golf swing and drives a red corvette.  Needless to say, I want to be her when I grow up. 

 

Standing in my little box with my pyramid of balls I begin my daily drill.  Each practice session involves hitting the exact same number of balls with each club.  This way I can keep a running percentage in my head of worm burners (balls that never get off the ground) to golf shots (balls that arc gracefully into the air landing gently on or around the target).   Generally, I am about 50% worm burners to golf shots.  Sometimes, when my lady I want to be when I grow up is there I get a bit nervous so my percentage may go down to 30%.  Unfortunately at today’s practice session my percentage was way off.   I seemed to be having difficulty with my follow through.

Like most golfers, I have the same routine for each stroke.  I sit the head of my club behind the ball holding the shaft in my right hand.  Looking over my left shoulder, I take aim at my target allowing my right hand to adjust the club head.  Once I have lined up the shot I place my left hand on the club and address the ball with my knees slightly bent, rear end sticking out like I’m about to sit down on a bar stool.  Now the brain takes over with the dreaded “swing” thoughts.   Head down, deep breath, pull into the backswing, let club head do the work on the way back down, don’t try to “hit” the ball, just swing the club, concentrate on keeping arms long bringing club up through the target and hold the final pose until the ball hits the ground.

 

Everything was going fine at first.  I always start with my nine iron and work my way up through the clubs to my driver.  Nine, good. Eight, good. By the time I got to my seven iron things began to fall apart.  It was hot, very hot and I had already begun to sweat.  In my annual summertime effort to do better for my body, I bought some body lotion that is supposed to have Q-10 to firm up your un-firm places.  When changing from my swimsuit to my golf clothes, the mirror made it apparent that this was a great time to slather on some of the skin firming lotion.  Since I’m barreling toward 50 like a freight train, my entire body except maybe my feet could do with a good dose of skin firming, so I slathered away with reckless abandon.   Unintended consequence…sweat plus copious amounts of body firming lotion plus woman having hot flash equals one slippery little duck.  So here I am, one sweaty, slick mess making every effort to keep my arms long and bring the club up through the target while the underside of my bra slides up over the bottom of my breast.  Instinctively I ditched out on the “hold the pose” portion of my swing routine and tugged my wayward undergarment back to its correct position.  With each subsequent swing, the sweaty, moisturized path from below my girls to above my girls was revisited.   This wardrobe malfunction put a complete halt to the long arms, swing through target and pose portion of my golf swing.  It seems quite unfair that while most women are worried about making sure their girls don’t escape out of the top of their bra, I’m wrestling to keep my bra from popping up over my girls and snapping me in the face.  And to top it all off, yes, in the box directly behind me is the lady I would like to be when I grow up gracefully sending balls out onto the range with her girls totally in check.

 

 

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