One time I had a boyfriend who liked to play golf.
Any female in my position knows the tedium of trailing behind the avid golfer and the near impossibility of feigning interest.
Luckily for me this golf course in Westchester where BF was a member was near his country house and this house was filled every weekend with contingents of both of our friends.
So one weekend I decided to jazz things up by encouraging my girlfriends to join me at the golf course.
These girlfriends, one a niece of a former American president, the other the daughter of a Middle Eastern arms dealer and the third a prostitute with a heart of gold or at least a bank account full of gold, and soon we agreed we needed to find a way to liven things up.
We commandeered the golf carts of my BF and his golfing buddies and each of us sped off in the buggies.
We raced away across the greens, ripping up divots, we revved the tiny engines to get us out of the sand traps and charged down dell and up hillock. We intentionally smashed into each other’s carts jockeying for first place. Loudly we howled and cried from laughter.
Reckless and fearless I soon lost control of my cart and rammed it and jammed vertically up a tree trunk.
Responding to this chaos groundskeepers chased us down and aggressively admonished us for our grotesque behavior.
Exaggerating my most British of British accents I lectured the groundskeepers that we were a VIP British team training for the world-class golf cart racing championships.
Unbelievably they accepted this shameless lie, “At least please try not to do too much damage.”
We assured them we would do our best but that we were in full training mode and that if we won the cup back in England we would be sure and dedicate the win to them.
Mercifully the BF never got wind of our activities and while we giggled all through dinner, we never explained ourselves.
Image by talented Serb painter, Momčilo Moma Bjeković
glad you got into some trouble, never toe the line
Yawn, gee, once when I was ten years old my friend’s older sister talked us into taking my brother’s ’38 Buick for a ride. “Not on the street.” I said, so we three took turns driving around the paint factory parking lot until some people came out and shouted at us, “We just want to know whose car that is!” Bur we three had waded across the Charles and were hunkered down on a little island. That night at the dinner table my big brother asked if I knew anything about his Buick winding up in the paint factory parking lot. One of my life’s regrets is never remembering to tell Bernie the story. If I ever get to heaven that’s the first story I’m going to tell him.
Driving like Schumacher