Lady Driver

I'm a Spinning instructor so people are always asking me for tips and advice on their own fitness endeavors.  The other day a friend called to release nerves about attending her first Spinning class, wondering if people would 'know' it was her first class and judge her, concerned about looking stupid.  My reply was that the good news is that people are just thinking about themselves, and they probably won't even notice you.

This is what my boyfriend says when we go to the driving range together and I either hit a great shot and exclaim, "Wow!  Did you see that!?"  He'll say, "No, Sweetie, I wasn't paying attention."  Gratefully, he's not paying attention the eight bajillion times I whiff it, either.

So how freeing the last time he took me and I did indeed whiff a few, no doubt.  But I also experienced a brand new phenomenon ... for the first time in my golfing career (a year) I didn't get frustrated with myself.  And, it turns out, I actually started to really enjoy experimenting with different ways to twist in my core, different techniques to focus, different amounts of grip.  I had fun.

I had fun.

I can count on one hand the number of times learning a new sport has produced a feeling of fun.  I'm so competitive, so fiercely independent, so fearful I'll look bad ... or worse, stupid, that I come across to everybody as a know-it-all.  It's part of the reason I prefer individual sports like running or activities performed in the dark like Spinning - because that way I can be in charge of a repetitive movement I can perform perfectly.  

Golf ... even for the most skilled players, it seems, is so far out of my comfort zone considering my preferred paradigm.  So for me to sit here and admit that even though I performed way less than perfectly, I enjoyed myself, relaxed and considered the activity fun?  Well, that's a miracle.

So I was inspired to hit the city driving range myself and not only was that fun too, but I would consider myself performing really well.  Out of a large bucket of balls, I whiffed very few.  I deliberately focused on the less angled clubs, my 'baby drivers' and my 7 wedge.  My boyfriend laughs at my terms for these clubs but I don't care, I called them these terms and he called them hybrids but then went on to explain they're not really hybrids and I don't know enough to counter so I just make up my own names.  The point is that I stood there hitting balls for a good 45 minutes ... I'll admit I had one eye on my phone the whole time hoping my boyfriend would text or call, but that's no different than any other day.  So, sue me, I like spending time with him.  The thrust of the matter is that for 45 minutes I enjoyed myself doing something I don't do perfectly but it seems that the act of enjoyment might have made me better than if I'd been punishing and shaming with myself about it.

We also played Golden Tee the other night and for the first time I made par on two holes.  I still have trouble picking a club without engaging the swing so I probably could have done better there.  And there is some nuance about putting I've yet to master.  My boyfriend thinks that putting failure will and does translate to the golf course but I totally disagree.  My ineptitude as a Golden Tee player is because I'm a girl and don't like/enjoy video games.  It's a good instructional tool to help me feel more familiar with my clubs and golfing in general, though.  

A wonderful vacation with my boyfriend to the Hamptons didn't include bringing my clubs due to the cost to ship them, even though I've seen ads for and wanted to try FedEx's golf club shipping service and even though they offer a discount for certain people who are eligible.  No matter, based on our plans, any chance at golfing was planned with borrowed clubs.  Borrow clubs we did, though we tried to sight see and friend-see as much as possible and unfortunately these events didn't coincide with a convenient public course with a driving range.  Upon returning home with an awkwardly timed middle-of-the-week 4th of July falling squarely in the worst heat wave since the 1930s, golf hasn't been an option since then.  I did inquire about lessons with the Chicagoland Golf Academy but their classes fall in conflict with work commitments so I'm not sure I'll be able to commit.  

I can see how patience is essential to the person learning how to golf.  Practice is the only way to improve and it's a huge challenge to find the time!  Between a full time job fundraising and a part time job as a fitness instructor and a serious relationship, free time gets eaten up.  

Sitting on the beach with my boyfriend and our Hamptons hosts, all experienced golfers, he offered that I'm learning to play the game.  There was some intrigue as to why now, why this sport.  I didn't have a great answer except that I've tried it and enjoy it so far and think it could be something I could enjoy for a long time.  My relationship isn't new but I'm newish to them, so I soft shoed how tied my interests are to what I hope is a seriously committed, shared future.  I made a remark how difficult it is to feel consistently successful with what driving practice I've had so far and all three of them laughed.  Confused, I continued that I hope to take lessons and use the driving range near my house because I'm not deluded I'll be a pro or anything, but I'd like to get good enough to play a reasonable game.  That made them laugh even harder.  My boyfriend said, "Hello, that's what all of us want."

I'm starting to understand the title of that book, "Golf is not a game of perfect."

I picked up my phone last night when my boyfriend checked in with his nightly call, something I'll never take for granted especially since we don't see each other every day.  I'm fiercely independent but also love the incoming communication.  It makes me feel special.  He was driving home and making a pit stop into the ATM when he called, and said he'd call for a more substantive conversation in a second but needed to get cash.  

I said, "Well, I'm walking into the driving range."

He said, "You're kidding me."

I said, "No, I'm not, and they're about to have last call to sell balls so I'm going to hit it."

He kind of huffed out a surprised, bemused laugh and said, "Um, well, then.  You call me when you're done with that!"

That's right, at 9:30 pm on a Tuesday night, I headed into the driving range with my #3, my #6 and my #7.  I am so lucky to live down the street from the Diversey Driving Range, a park district facility where a bucket of 50 balls costs $10, where they're open year-round, with hours accommodating to a busy brain that ramps up just shy of midnight.

I selected those clubs given my two most recent driving range experiences.  I'm confused as to which clubs to call hybrids because from what I understand, technically they're all hybrids.  So I refer to the clubs as my driver, the junior drivers, the baby drivers and the wedges.  And since I experienced the most awkward trouble once I got off the tee, onto the green, handling the baby drivers and the wedges, I felt we needed to become better friends.

I validated my selection of clubs based on the other urbanites milling in and out of the facility, all about my same age, carrying three clubs of a similar assortment.  

This was a very successful trip in that I learned about lessons I can take for $150 for 6 weeks from the Chicagoland Golf Academy, a price which might be a little steep for my not-for-profit salary but it's something I'm definitely considering.  I learned if I loosen my grip I'm less compelled to use my arms and more prone to power from my core.  I produced about 30 very successful clicking sounds with nice pretty arcs.  

My full set of clubs has officially accompanied me to the first of what I hope to be are thousands of holes of golf to be played until I head to the Members Club in the Sky.

On the way to the driving range, I asked a few questions, prefacing that they might be dumb, a statement which acted as the catalyst for a bunch of ha-ha conversation about dumb questions.  I said well how about you let me ask the questions and I'll prepare for you to say something like, "Oh Sweetie, isn't that cute."  Smiling, he grabbed my hand and said, "OK, let me hear it."

It had occurred to me that it was really nice that I could hit a successful drive off the practice tee but I needed to experience whether I could apply any of the knowledge I'd learned from playing Golden Tee on a real golf course.  So, I wanted to know if it's required to pay for and play all 18 holes, ie: could someone play just three holes, for example.  Or, is there such a thing as a practice hole and, if not, is it possible to use one hole on a regular course for practice after all parties are done playing.

Turns out those aren't such stupid questions and the next thing I knew, I was standing at the red tee getting ready to hit my first drive.  Looking at the score card, there's a complicated setup based on yards and pars that indicate which of the four tees to use.  The other three are gold, silver and bronze and are all listed on top.  I don't know if it's sexist or if it's reflective of the club's 1000 to 4 male-to-female membership ratio, but the red tee is code for the women's tee and it is wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy in front of the others.  

I'm not complaining.  Trust me when I say it is hideously intimidating standing at that sissy red tee, looking at that green 8 million bajillion miles away, holding my shiny red driver, adjusting my posture, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to block my fearful mental chatter that if I mess up, my boyfriend will roll his eyes and rue the day he spent so much money on me, on something he hoped I'd be able to pick up quickly so we could play together, but my lack of skill and ability is a hopeless cause so ...

Anyway, I hit the drive just fine and it made that metallic clicking sound that signals I might not be perfect but I've got enough.  And it landed reasonably on the green.

Mopping the sweat off my brow, I got into the cart and we drove up to the green and that's where the situation broke down.  I asked what club to use, a question met with a really impatient, "figure it out yourself."  I looked at that bag of clubs, so eager to please, and the blue of the bag and the red of the clubs mixed together to make purple, the same way the numbers on a math test used to dance around and make shapes.  I said, "You can't be serious."

My boyfriend.  Love of my life.  Experienced golfer.  Impatient coach.  So handsome with curly hair spilling out of his visor sporting the club's logo.  He realized he'd asked too much too soon, of course, filling me with shame, convincing me he'd take the clubs at the end of this day's session and sell them on EBay.  He picked out a club for me to use and I whiffed it.  He said something about me not understanding the finesse and I whiffed it again.  I made a few more attempts with awkwardness I hadn't felt or experienced since I had a mouth full of braces complete with a headgear I was prescribed to wear 24 hours a day.  8 strokes to sink it, finally.  A 'snowman.'  The hot flames of shame burned in my face like it was a million degrees outside.

Of course, he became the gazelle of golfers and putted the thing into the green  like a pro.  He suddenly acted practically like Webb Frickin Simpson.  Well.  La-dee-dah.  

Driving the cart back to the club I told him my anxieties and he laughed.  I love how I can break through the moat and firewall around his heart and make his handsome face smile so big the power could fuel lights on the golf course during the night.  Still laughing, he said that people take years to learn to golf.  In fact, when he was looking for clubs to buy me, he looked on Craigslist and every single set was billed as, "bought the clubs because I thought I'd try to learn but failed miserably."  Here I put all these expectations on the gift symbolizing some outcome for our relationship I certainly hope for, but has nothing to do with whether I possess skill for golf. 

I also started to look at my golf clubs like a litter of black lab puppies.  They all look the same as a group, but each has its own personality.  I realized I'd spent lots of time loving up on my driver but what I call the 'baby drivers' didn't perform the same, and their handles are shorter.  The wedges feel easier to use, to me, but I learned that's because they're pitched at a more favorable angle.

The next step is to hit the range and develop an intimate relationship with each club.

I didn't get out to the driving range last night like I'd planned.

But I did research the 'yip' for a future post.

My teen years occurred in a sleepy Midwestern suburb before the Internet, in the advent of Cable, when significant determination was required to feed a curious mind and engage an antsy body.  I observed neighbors donning headbands and short-shorts begin to clip up and down the block, shedding blubber from a diet overrun with cream of mushroom soup and tater tots, frowns turned decidedly upside down.  Their footwear featured an intriguing swoosh which I later learned was the Nike logo I'd covet from that point on.  

I obtained my first pair of Nikes as a gift intended to offer needed fit-innery: a status symbol to anchor my braces-plagued awkwardness adrift in a world overrun lanky Nordic types.  Wear them to fit in, I did, but I also started to run in secret.  Left home by myself with tremendous frequency as a latch-key kid, I ran laps  inside our tiny matchbox of a house, ran up and down the stairs from the basement to the first floor, did pushups and situps in the living room.  Before Walkmans, we didn't have a stereo, and we had one TV ... fueling these workouts was solely the company of my own thoughts, strong in an otherwise wholly scary world where I was teased, where my arms and legs flailed without prior warning, where I felt so hopelessly unsafe and afraid despite my happy, smiling demeanor.

I was discovered one day by a parent who returned home unexpectedly.  Exhilarated from my endorphin rush, I was blindsided that my ritual was not only discouraged, howling rage was directed towards me with accusations my sweatty body marred pristine furniture, that laps tread grooves into plush carpeting, that my activities were generally unladylike.  I was pounded with endless inquiries why I couldn't be more like my calmer, prettier, blonder sister.  That was the thing in my house ... any time I dared peek out from my locked bedroom with anything interesting to me, I was shut down handily under the voracious wrath of red-in-the-face shouting, veins popping from foreheads, dictation I should think about my deliberate disobedience and go fit in some form of box whose borders I still struggle to identify.

This dynamic spit an awfully neurotic girl into the world ... looking for answers, scared of her own shadow, plagued with screaming inner voices the minute any activity feels like fun.

I think about this as my toe is freshly in the golfing pool, how the few times I've golfed with my BF and the pair of lessons we've shared have given me private anxiety I shielded from him behind smiles.  I ponder the strength of my soul as fitness and athletic activities have been the one consistent joy I've pursued despite such damaging discouragement from people failing in their job to support and nurture.  I can't help but appreciate the rod of steel running through my character to persist ... even in times where I in other ways self destructed, I was always sporty.  

Last night I had dinner with a really nice group of women, the kind of people I'd pick to be my mom if one could do that.  Upon telling them I'd gotten golf clubs, I was suddenly overwhelmed with support and offers to golf together, and I'm intrigued.  First of all I didn't know any of these women golfed because we've never discussed it before.  Why would we?  Secondly, with the very little I've engaged with the LPGA so far, I'm so fascinated by a dynamic I've come to learn is unique to women's golfers, the relationship between the golfer and the caddy being different and more uniquely 'female' than the way men and their caddies function.  There's a more encouraging, almost coaching and strategic relationship the mostly men caddies offer the female golfer.

Harkening back to my teen self, getting my sweat on in secret, I think about how just an ounce of encouragement might have brought me out of my shell.  Certainly the main reason for me to pursue golf in this context is to get good enough to enjoy the activity with the love of my life.  He is incredibly patient and encouraging the way I imagine the LPGA caddies to be and, of course, we get along really well everywhere so it's no surprise togetherness on the greens is an extension of our fun.

But now that it's an option to enjoy this with women, build friendships, enjoy each other outside of the more traditional 'ladylike' pursuits I was shamed into thinking I failed at simply by waking up in the morning, it's made me consider organizations like Girls on the Run or Girls in the Game, or even the Girl Scouts ... established for motivating and encouraging strong girls to turn into productive, amazing women.  I wonder if I'd had that natural source of outside strength if I'd be able to appreciate the gift I've been given today ... not just of the golf clubs, but to join a club, a sportier club, a fellowship of women bonding over the pursuit of something fun.  

When the man I love now was just a casual interest last summer he asked me to the driving range.  Wanting to impress, I agreed knowing the most impressive thing I could offer in this context would be to flaunt my toned butt in a skort.

Athletic in my own right, I treated the golf club like a baseball bat I projected downward and, with some dumb luck, hit a couple of shots reasonably well enough to make him ask me back.

My lack of ability was secondary to the rise he got as the other dudes in golf carts would slow down to catch a glimpse of a woman on the golf course ... one 40 years younger and 40 pounds lighter than any woman any of them had seen since college.

But my innate athletic ability shone through my inexperience especially when I learned that a good swing begins in the core.  A core certified fitness instructor, this is language I understand.  So, after a couple of lessons including some shameful video I destroyed immediately after viewing for educational purposes, I was hooked with the idea I had no need to be super-good with such a late-in-life start.

Toxic perfectionism threatens that otherwise laissez-faire ethos, from time-to-time, particularly since with a full time job, a part time job and a life populated with responsibilities and tasks, I lack time to truly practice the way I should.  A couple of very tough sessions occurred during our Miami vacation leaving me feeling hot flames of shame that I'd embarrassed my boyfriend with my poor performance.

And, recently, in what I consider to be a sign of true love, my boyfriend bought me my very own set of golf clubs.  I took my shiny red driver out for a date to the range the other night with my LPGA-approved Jeep-driving gal pal who has golfed since she stopped crawling.  She authenticated my natural ability and with a few minor adjustments including sticking the handle of her club on my head, I had enough muscle memory in my core to feel the clubs were not purchased in vain.