Last Friday, I suffered through a round of golf with my brother.  Now, before you say “Oh, you poor thing.  Your suffering must have been unbearable.”  let me give you some details.

First of all, I’m not a golf guy.  When somebody asks “Do you play golf?” my normal response is “I have clubs.”  I can enjoy a little golf, now and then.  But I’m not like some guys who seem to base their entire existence around the possibility of sneaking in a round of golf.

And I guess I shouldn’t say “guys” since, in our house, it’s K who is golf obsessed.

One could attribute my lack of excitement about golf to three things:

1) Golf, as a leisure activity, is fairly expensive.  And I’m cheap.
2) A round of golf takes entirely too much time, which could be used for much more important things.  Like watching football.
3) I suck at golf.

Now, let me paint you a picture.  Imagine a large, grassy expanse of land after a couple of days of heavy rain.  Now picture walking around that land in 40 degree weather, without the ability to wear large, bulky, warm outerwear.  And finally, in the weather trifecta, add in 35 mph winds.

Yes, I said 35 mph winds.

This is the environs in which we were blessed enough to try to hit a small white ball.  We could barely stand up in the wind.  The ball was at the mercy of the wind.  And any ball that, by the grace of God, was well struck found itself embedded in an inch of mud upon landing.  Of course, in what could only be attributed to a horrible case of testosterone poisoning, nobody wanted to risk being branded a girly man by being the first one to say “This is ridiculous.  Let’s stop.”  So we played 18.

I think the feeling has just about returned to my extremities.

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