Sometimes you know, when one’s mood is low, there’s not a thing in the world better than playing goofy-golf with one’s kids.
I should try to find a history of goofy golf, mini golf, whatever you want to call it. It’s an oddity, and I’d guess a singularly american one. I can’t quite imagine the french or the germans playing it.
But in any case, it’s terribly hard to find much importance in the world’s problem or my own when I’m using a tiny, candy-colored putter to knock a florescent orange golf-ball into a grinning dragon’s mouth.
Tiny, tiny satisfactions. Getting the free hole-in-one by knocking my ball into the castle’s gate; or better, watching my six-year-old do the same. Watching how happy she is when she hits the ball well, and how much she doesn’t care when she flubs.
My kids don’t care who wins. It’s all about being there, doing something utterly silly with dad on a sunny saturday afternoon.
I need to do this sort of thing more. Golf, then dipped cones at the taste-E-freeze, then taking the jeep to the jeep to the car wash so I can take the hard-top off tomorrow. Dinner at the sushi-train place (I don’t know why this is more entertaining than boats, but for some reason it is.
Simple, sunny saturday afternoons. I need more days like this.
Of course, it’s still me. In between teaching my six-year-old the finer points of a goofy-golf swing, I was also checking out a lovely MILF in the party behind us. Clearly a silicone sister (Why do women do this?), but still, she made a 15 dollar white tee-shirt look like a million bucks.
I’m not sure if I made her day or ruined it, but I momentarily forgot I was in a kilt and bent over to get a golf-ball out of a water trap while she was looking my way. I left her no doubt how the kilt was worn, and she blushed oh-so-prettily.
I winked at her. I’m afraid I might give her nightmares, yet I can only hope I give her something else to think about when she slips between her sheets tonight.
Because even on a simple sunny saturday, I’m still me.