How people could voluntarily expose themselves to utter frustration and pain by trying to use a long stick to hit a tiny little ball hundreds of metres down a giant green field, I will NEVER understand.
So instead, I volunteered to drive the cart. And get the beers.
Here. I drew it for you.
|This is Hubby and our friends teeing off. |
That pink ball is Hubby's.
But that is him wearing his aviators.
Except he shoots all wonky. A righty lefty.
|And this is me. In my cart. Supervising.|
|Then I took some pictures. |
Boredom was setting in.
It had been one hole.
|Me, running to catch the beer cart. |
WAIT! HELP ME!
|Me, drinking my beer, paying no attention whatsoever to the golfers. |
|Me, hunting for long-lost golf balls. |
Just for the pure thrill of it.
And constantly being reminded to stay out of the line of fire of people actually playing golf on the golf course.
|The four of us eating dinner.|
Hubby stewing a bit about his game.
Me trying to ignore all golf talk entirely.
And apparently we all became zombies.