I just finished up a four-day golfing trip with “da boyz”. This is a group of pretty good golfers and heavy drinkers who plan one big such outing a year.
This year I sprained my ankle just a few days before the trip to Lake Tahoe. By the time it was time to leave, I was debating whether to bring my crutches along. Resigned to accepting just caddy duty, I went anyways to spend time with the seven other boyz. Somehow, however, I managed to play nine holes the first day, 18 holes the second, and 13 the third day.
Da boyz wrapped up my ankle, carried my bags and drove the golf carts right up to my balls. The shot gun seat was always reserved for me. Pretty supportive bunch for all the trash talking this group can spew out.
My biggest concern was my ankle getting worse since my wife clearly stated that I would not be welcomed back home if my ankle worsened from golfing. Apparently, she’s tired of all my “stupids” as a man, and thought the reasonable decision would be to stay home. Some of da boyz offered their homes as refuge if I ended up homeless.
The bottom line is that as we’ve all gotten older, we’ve all had to take our wives’ anger more seriously. We’re not invincible anymore, not physically, not mentally, not in our personal relationships. Even in our drunkenness our bravado has waned, giving way to some sensitive emotions. Ah, da boyz are moving into their mid-life.