Saturday morning from the rough(yeah I know it’s Sunday but cut me break)

Sunday Morning From the Rough…

I have officially reached that stage of life where getting kicked out of my own house feels like an all-inclusive vacation.

Jan’s annual Girls Week starts today.

Which means sometime this afternoon I’ll load up my truck, wave goodbye, and be lovingly exiled from the premises. I’m pretty sure if I come back before next weekend, there’ll be a wreath on the front door that says:

“No Boys Allowed.”

Fair enough.

I know better than to argue with a house full of women.

Yesterday was one of those days that reminds you how good life can be.

Spent the day at the golf tournament with one of the Dad Bods. We walked miles watching the best golfers in the world make a game look ridiculously easy while simultaneously convincing ourselves we were only “one or two swing thoughts” away from joining them.

We’re not.

They hit towering draws that land six feet from the pin.

I once hit a pitching wedge so fat it almost qualified as landscaping.

Different skill sets.

Today I’m back with the Dad Bods.

I’ve said it before, but we’re less of a golf group and more of a traveling support group for middle-aged men with lower back pain and unrealistic expectations.

Half the conversation is golf.

The other half is comparing blood pressure medicine, knee braces, cholesterol numbers, and whether Costco has a sale on steaks.

Nobody asks how you’re doing.

They ask, “How’s the shoulder?”

Or…

“You still taking Wegovy?”

Or my personal favorite…

“You think we can get 18 in before somebody has to pee?”

Youth is wasted on the young.

Meanwhile, I have somehow stumbled into the greatest week a guy could ask for.

I’m homeless…

…but in a Marriott.

My wife has the house.

I have peace and quiet.

Nobody’s asking me where the scissors are.

Nobody’s asking me to reach something on the top shelf.

Nobody’s asking me to kill a spider that’s apparently the size of a Labrador Retriever.

It’s just me…

A golf course…

And the sweet sound of spending fifteen minutes looking for a Pro V1 I absolutely refuse to leave behind because, “That’s a five-dollar golf ball!”

Then comes the best part…

I get to play golf…

Three.

Times.

This.

Week.

At 55 years old!

Twenty-five-year-old me would’ve assumed I had become independently wealthy.

Reality is much less glamorous.

I’m just temporarily displaced by a group of women with charcuterie boards and wine.

I’ll take it.

The funny thing is…

A year ago I wasn’t sure I’d have another summer.

Now I’m stressing over whether I packed enough golf polos.

That’s growth.

Last year I couldn’t see much beyond the next day.

Today I’m trying to figure out which course has the best hot dogs.

Life changes in the strangest ways.

And somewhere in all of that, I realized something.

These ordinary weekends…

These rounds with the Dad Bods…

These random conversations while walking a PGA tournament…

These are the things I was fighting to stay alive for.

Not because they’re spectacular.

Because they’re mine.

So this Sunday morning from the rough, I’m grateful.

Grateful for friends.

Grateful for laughter.

Grateful for a wife who trusts me enough to kick me out for a week.

And grateful that my biggest crisis today is deciding which golf shirt best hides the fact that I’ve eaten one too many post-round hot dogs.

Now if you’ll excuse me…

I’ve got a tee time.

I’ve got three rounds this week.

I’ve got exactly twelve golf balls in my bag.

Which means I’ll probably come home with two.

Have a great Sunday, friends. And if you’re playing golf today, remember…

You’re only one swing away from convincing yourself you need $600 worth of new clubs. ⛳️🏌️