It was 1979-- A peanut farmer was President, Rod Stewart was belting out "Do You Think I'm Sexy", "Three's Company" was on everyone's televisions, and all I wanted for my 21st birthday was a microwave oven.
Back then, I rarely cooked and the idea of "nuking" dinner was very appealing. All my friends had one and I wanted one too-- Everybody knew it, including my then live-in boyfriend. It's all I'd talked about for months.
The morning before my 21st birthday, I hinted heavily, one last time, and even went so far as to accidentally on purpose drop an advertisement of the model I was hoping for in his briefcase. I felt confident, the next day, frozen heat-up dinners would be gracing my dining table. I was so excited!
Boyfriend got me a set of golf clubs.
@#$%&!
Did I mention I hate golf? Well let me assure you, Boyfriend knew-- Without a shadow of a doubt, that golf was at the absolute bottom of my "to-do" list.
Boyfriend had been around for a couple of years at that point and we'd spent a few (six or seven hundred) afternoons together, while he played and I fanned myself through 18 miserable holes of golf, in the gawd awful Ohio heat and humidity, only to be treated to a beer and a hot dog after the torture. Did I mention I do not drink beer?
Boyfriend was addicted to the game. Me, not even a little. I played a few times but knew instantly it was not for me. But I didn't complain if he played. In fact, I was more than happy to leave him to his game all day long, as often as he wanted to play-- Which should tell you a bit about the quality of our relationship.
Let's just say, the more Boyfriend played golf without me, the happier I was...
But he was having none of that. He wanted me with him for days filled with his cursing, throwing clubs, kicking balls, and nasty sportsmanship that pretty much made 5 hours of golf-togetherness a real picnic.
Boyfriend, despite hours and hours of practice, was a terrible and very frustrated golfer.
The morning of my birthday, and with great fanfare, Boyfriend presented me with a full set of baby blue golf clubs-- Yes, baby friggin blue ones that were actually a couple of inches too long for my short height. I'm pretty sure they fell off a truck somewhere in New Jersey and no receipt was presented to exchange them for the correct size... or a microwave oven.
The baby blue clubs looked like kiddie toys, except I wanted used them as a lethal weapon on Boyfriend who kept telling me how much fun I'd have playing with him. Oh, and the matching baby blue golf shoes that came with the set-- Two sizes to big and also not returnable.
I was not a happy camper sitting there with my new golf clubs-- Stunned, very angry, and with so much steam coming out of my ears, I'm sure my Farrah Fawcett hair do was withering to straight strands of an over sprayed mess.
Golf clubs? Surely this was a joke. So I excused myself and headed towards the kitchen thinking, hoping, praying-- a bright shiny new microwave would be waiting for me with a big beautiful bow on it.
Nothing.
But the birthday gifts continued.
Golf lessons! Boyfriend signed me up for 24, one hour golf lessons and the first one was that very afternoon... Because apparently that's what every 21 year old woman wants to do on her birthday.
Back then, I had a hard time speaking up and expressing myself, so instead of beating him to death with the golf clubs, I smiled, bit my tongue, and agreed to try a few classes.
Over the next month, I literally hit 5,000 golf balls, each time cursing Boyfriend and plotting my escape from our living arrangement. And for the record, I really did try to learn how to swing those ridiculous looking clubs.
I took a few more classes then I'd intended because the golf pro was very sweet and because, after class, I could fain exhaustion and not have to play a round of golf with Boyfriend.
After about a month of frustrating classes, the golf pro sat me down and delivered the bad news. Very gently he explained, trying not to hurt my feelings, that "golf was not my game." Hallelujah! I nearly kissed him on the lips and knew I would never take another blue golf club out of that @#$%^&! baby blue golf bag again.
Golf Pro, bless his heart, also advised Boyfriend that golf was simply not my sport.
Shortly thereafter, a brand new microwave oven was my first purchase for my new apartment-- Which was far, far away from the baby blue golf clubs and Ex-boyfriend.
Seriously. Baby blue golf clubs?
Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins
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