Wednesday, 22 July 2015

The Golf Widow

My long-suffering wife is a golf widow, a term that my father used, but was probably coined by someone in the distant past who recognized the phenomenon.  She is really quite good about the fact that she has lost her husband, at least much of the time, to golf.  She actually doesn't seem to mind it all that much, preferring, I suppose, a husband who spends much of his waking hours either playing, thinking about, or, since I've started blogging, writing about golf, to a husband who chases younger women, drinks, or gambles.

Not that I don't drink.  I like a couple of beers, especially hoppy ones, and I occasionally gamble, but only on the golf course, and never for more than I can readily afford to lose.  And, fortunately, I don't have a hankering for younger women.  I figure I've got enough trouble in my life already, and why would a younger woman be interested in an old goat like me anyway?

When we got together, it not being my first rodeo, or Kathryn's for that matter, we were honest with each other.  I told her I was a golfer, and that I always would be.  This she readily accepted, probably because she really didn't comprehend just what this meant.  I also told her that, given I was now an only child, my sister having died in a car crash, I would be looking after my parents when they needed looking after.  This she accepted, again not knowing what that might entail either.

Kathryn had only one rule; actually two rules.  She would not share, and she would love me faithfully as long as I was nice to her.  I could live with both those conditions, given that I had no intention of seeking any other female comfort, and I always figure it's better to be nice anyway.

So, Kathryn accepts her widowhood, finding ways to occupy her time while I'm either playing, thinking, or writing about golf.  She even walks the course with me, taking pictures and finding me previously-enjoyed, but obviously poorly behaved, golf balls.  She helps me find deals on places to travel and play, and she feigns interest, if and when I bend her ear about my trials and tribulations on the course.  What more could a man ask for?  

Well, maybe one thing.  I wish she'd make her lasagna more often.