Wednesday, March 17, 2010
It was in the middle of the fairway on hole 7 at Las Vegas National that Tiffany and I put our fancy sneakers up on the dash of the golf cart. An overcast day, breeze blowing, and slightly tired from the party the day before, I was admiring the 60s aqua and pink houses surrounding the course. Tiffany squinted at a low plane flying into McCarran and took a drink of water. We heckled the group of guys in front of us, taking their sweet time on the green.
"I think," said Tiffany, "That I'm a man sometimes."
"Why?" I responded, "Because we're golfing faster than these guys? And now we're totally impatient that we have to slow our game because of them? I mean, come on, FORE."
"Totally!" she said, and we laughed.
The universal conclusion between the two of us pony-tailed girls in cardigans was that we are too much like men. Exhibit 1: We are the golfers. We own clubs, not rent, and the idea of a Saturday morning smacking a Titleist a few hundred yards is an absolute delight. Maybe "delight" is too frilly. Is "totally boss"?
Exhibit 2: I golf and I have a husband who doesn't want to go golfing, not ever. I ask, sometimes pleadingly and using my nicest girl-ish wiles, for him to set a tee time, and he refuses. What kind of lucky man is my other half that he has a wife that would love nothing better than to golf? Not so lucky that he will join, is the answer.
The girls in the cardigans swear. We probably swear too much. Tiffany likes to swear while flashing an innocent girl smile. I've made men stammer and sweat with some of the words that have fallen out of my mouth, resulting in minutes of silence and throat-clearing anxiety (for them. I'm just raising one eyebrow.) I don't swear like that anymore, but don't think I can't. It's in my back pocket; a slim and wicked weapon of choice.
It's Tiffany and I watching the World Series together, and again, not one man watching it with us. Who can resist the boys of summer in their final autumn innings? Not us. Take us out to the ballgame anytime.
She and I go to football games together, no football-attending men around these parts. We cheer until our throats give out, or until Tiffany starts swearing because that two-point conversion attempt was a bad, bad idea and I have to elbow her to remind her that we're at a BYU game and the other fans are fast becoming goggle-eyed at the two mouthy brunettes.
We've played a half dozen sports together. When it comes to softball, I can throw and she can run. We're evenly split on the bowling.
Exhibit 8: Relentless pursuits of new and better burger joints. Tiffany takes her steak rare, and I, a medium-rare. I've been known to make fun of the men who order well-done. Cough.
Our careers are technology careers. Boy-heavy in those joints, let me tell you what. We're used to being the only woman in the room. We roll with the barbs and the vaguely sexual references because we know we can give better than we get.
And, really, we're both nerdy boys. We read nerdy boy books. We like nerdy boy TV shows. Tired of me going on and on about Battlestar Galactica? TOO BAD. You should have watched it already, Shirley.
So the next time you see us on the golf course, heckling the frat boys whose short games are approaching triple-par, give us a shout, or the finger, because we'll just slide on our cute driving gloves, flip down our adorable, big-lensed sunglasses, fluff our hair, and flip you a double deuce right back.