Future Country Club Member

My apologies for the lack of attention on my blog lately. I have found far more important and snobby things to do with my time. That's right, St. Pauly Girl is learning how to golf.

Between my golf lessons and shopping for the cutest golf apparel in the midwest, I just haven't been able to justify taking time away from my development as a superior women's golfer in order to blab about nothing on this site. Besides, my nose is sticking so far up in the air that I can no longer see the screen of my laptop. I apologize to anyone who has been waiting for updates, as my schedule can no longer accommodate anything other than perfecting what is already looking like a gorgeous swing. Ta, ta, mes amies.



Ok, I really can't pull that shit off.


Here's what's really up with my not posting....


Yes, I am learning how to golf. I have lessons on Thursday's with South St. Pauly Girl and my Sis-In-Law, which suck but are fun at the same time. I get home from that and collapse on the couch. Who knew it would take that much energy to NOT hit the ball? Every once and a while I practice my swing in the back yard, attempting to hit pine cones, but after a bit I need to come back inside and collapse on the couch again. Not hitting pine cones is just as exhausting as not hitting golf balls.

After a couple of lessons, I think I'm getting the hang of it. My swing is really improving and I actually hit the ball 9 times out of 10. The problem still is getting to 10 swings without feeling like I need to have the big cooler of Gaterade dumped over my head. My arms feel like mush and my back aches. In essence, golf is making me feel like a 90 year old man who's just trying to lift the beer up to his mouth and back down to the bar without falling off the stool. This is what I get for allowing myself to be so terribly out of shape. What, did you think I've been spending all of my glorious unemployedness out jogging or something?? Hells no, there are re-runs of 90210 every day on Soap Net for the love of Pete. Why the hell would I want to exercise when I can reacquaint myself with Kelly Taylor and Dylan McKay?

I've decided that I can do both. I can spend my mornings at the driving range and my afternoons with the 9-0 clique. But for now, the part where I collapse on the couch after swinging the club is still part of the equation.