Teed off without women

Weir thinking about it

Recently, at a dinner function with some friends, one of the guys brought up the idea of a golfing holiday for men. He said that he and a bunch of other guys were planning to spend nine days in Scotland, playing as much as 36 holes a day. They would play golf all day, every day, have dinner with the guys at night, then turn in to be rested for the following day. When I was asked if I wanted to attend, I balked, saying that I didn't think it would be enjoyable for me to spend nine days away from my wife.

Perhaps that was the wrong way to put it, because I spent the rest of the evening fending off comments from some of the guys who obviously took it as a challenge to their relationships. 'This is a guys' thing. The wives understand. Can't you be away from your wife a little while? Whatta ya helpless without her?' And so it went for the next hour or so. Although I realize it was all in fun, and simply meant as a rebuttal to the reasons for my declining the invitation, I couldn't help thinking about the hornets' nest I unintentionally stirred up.

I have to admit up front that I'm not exactly a golfing enthusiast. I can take the game or leave it. However, when I do play, I actually enjoy playing with my wife. Now, I know that may put me at odds with a lot of other guys who think of golf as primarily a man's game, a game that is only slowed down by waiting for a member of the female gender to keep up with the pace. But, in truth, to me it's not about golf. It's about whom I want to spend my time with. The idea of vacationing with a bunch of men, whose fervent desire is to smack a ball around with a club all day, every day, for nine days, is enough to give me a nervous tic.

Perhaps, to enjoy an outing such as this, one has to be what is known as a man's man. That is to say, you like to hang out with the boys, drink beer, and talk football, basketball, baseball, or some other primarily testosterone—related subject. Although I doubt that I'm lacking in the aforementioned hormone, I prefer to adapt its use to a more romantic and comfortable encounter than one can find swinging a sand wedge under the hot sun.

At the risk of sounding like an adherent of political correctness, I stoutheartedly proclaim to the world that I love the company of women. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy a game of golf with the guys now and then, or any other kind of sport for that matter. But NINE DAYS? Gimme a break! Are they joining a monastery?

This reminds me of the old Bob Hope joke: 'It's a lucky thing that somebody invented golf, otherwise men would have to find another excuse to get away from their wives.'  Moreover, nine days also means nine nights. Why would I want to subject myself to sleeping alone for all those nights when I'm used to having a loving, satisfying companion within arms length? If that means I'm spoiled, then so be it. But, since my wife feels similarly, I guess we're both spoiled. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But you haven't heard the kicker yet. These guys are telling their wives that all the women in Scotland are ugly; therefore even if somebody wanted to fool around, they would be out of luck. Now, I don't know about you, but if my wife told me she was going to another country with a group of women for nine days, and I shouldn't worry because all the guys in that country are dogs, I'd worry. Any country, populated by hideous humans would quickly become extinct.  Scotland, when I last checked the figures, was having a healthy population growth. None of this is to allege for a minute that the guys have any ulterior motives beyond 6 AM tee—offs. In fact, I'm completely convinced they don't. What I'm saying is, they want so badly to get away with the guys for nine days of bogeys, eagles, and mulligans, they're attempting to convince their wives that there isn't an attractive woman in all of the British Isles. You have to be a pretty shrewd salesman to pull that off.

If I ever play golf with these guys, I'll be sure to keep my own score.

Bob Weir is a columnist for The American Thinker. The author of 7 books, he is a retired NYPD sergeant, living in Flower Mound, Texas. BobWeir777@aol.com

Weir thinking about it

Recently, at a dinner function with some friends, one of the guys brought up the idea of a golfing holiday for men. He said that he and a bunch of other guys were planning to spend nine days in Scotland, playing as much as 36 holes a day. They would play golf all day, every day, have dinner with the guys at night, then turn in to be rested for the following day. When I was asked if I wanted to attend, I balked, saying that I didn't think it would be enjoyable for me to spend nine days away from my wife.

Perhaps that was the wrong way to put it, because I spent the rest of the evening fending off comments from some of the guys who obviously took it as a challenge to their relationships. 'This is a guys' thing. The wives understand. Can't you be away from your wife a little while? Whatta ya helpless without her?' And so it went for the next hour or so. Although I realize it was all in fun, and simply meant as a rebuttal to the reasons for my declining the invitation, I couldn't help thinking about the hornets' nest I unintentionally stirred up.

I have to admit up front that I'm not exactly a golfing enthusiast. I can take the game or leave it. However, when I do play, I actually enjoy playing with my wife. Now, I know that may put me at odds with a lot of other guys who think of golf as primarily a man's game, a game that is only slowed down by waiting for a member of the female gender to keep up with the pace. But, in truth, to me it's not about golf. It's about whom I want to spend my time with. The idea of vacationing with a bunch of men, whose fervent desire is to smack a ball around with a club all day, every day, for nine days, is enough to give me a nervous tic.

Perhaps, to enjoy an outing such as this, one has to be what is known as a man's man. That is to say, you like to hang out with the boys, drink beer, and talk football, basketball, baseball, or some other primarily testosterone—related subject. Although I doubt that I'm lacking in the aforementioned hormone, I prefer to adapt its use to a more romantic and comfortable encounter than one can find swinging a sand wedge under the hot sun.

At the risk of sounding like an adherent of political correctness, I stoutheartedly proclaim to the world that I love the company of women. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I don't enjoy a game of golf with the guys now and then, or any other kind of sport for that matter. But NINE DAYS? Gimme a break! Are they joining a monastery?

This reminds me of the old Bob Hope joke: 'It's a lucky thing that somebody invented golf, otherwise men would have to find another excuse to get away from their wives.'  Moreover, nine days also means nine nights. Why would I want to subject myself to sleeping alone for all those nights when I'm used to having a loving, satisfying companion within arms length? If that means I'm spoiled, then so be it. But, since my wife feels similarly, I guess we're both spoiled. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But you haven't heard the kicker yet. These guys are telling their wives that all the women in Scotland are ugly; therefore even if somebody wanted to fool around, they would be out of luck. Now, I don't know about you, but if my wife told me she was going to another country with a group of women for nine days, and I shouldn't worry because all the guys in that country are dogs, I'd worry. Any country, populated by hideous humans would quickly become extinct.  Scotland, when I last checked the figures, was having a healthy population growth. None of this is to allege for a minute that the guys have any ulterior motives beyond 6 AM tee—offs. In fact, I'm completely convinced they don't. What I'm saying is, they want so badly to get away with the guys for nine days of bogeys, eagles, and mulligans, they're attempting to convince their wives that there isn't an attractive woman in all of the British Isles. You have to be a pretty shrewd salesman to pull that off.

If I ever play golf with these guys, I'll be sure to keep my own score.

Bob Weir is a columnist for The American Thinker. The author of 7 books, he is a retired NYPD sergeant, living in Flower Mound, Texas. BobWeir777@aol.com