Wow. I am so not qualified to speak on either International Peace nor World Gratitude Day. It’d be nice to have world peace AND have everyone be grateful for it, but I don’t believe we’ll ever see that in our lifetime. Besides, what would we complain about then? And I just can’t imagine the people of Denver allowing a peaceful merge of lanes amongst their fellow vehicular neighbors let alone having the rest of the world get along. Not even for one single, solitary day.
So let’s talk about miniature golf instead. After all, I am a professional putt-putter. Really. I’m not joking. Oh, okay. I am. But there’s a story behind it. I know you’re dying to hear it. 🙂
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I was a beautiful princess living in an amazing castle… oh wait. Wrong story. Okay. Starting over. Once upon a time, I was a fair maiden living in a land of glistening powdery snow, high upon a mountaintop in an apartment with five other people. There were boys as far as the eye could see. Some good-looking. Some well-educated. Some, well, some were complete losers. Actually, many of them were. See, I was living in a place called “Summit County”, a mystical land that some only dream of visiting – let alone actually live there – and I was one of the fortunate ones.
This play land of outdoor recreation did hold about 10 boys to every one female, which could be quite appealing to those in possession of XX chromosomes. Let me warn you ladies – before you start packing to move out west and find the man of your dreams – there is also a well-known phrase about the boys of Summit County: “The odds are good, but the goods are odd”. Oh, it’s not a joke.
(I have to interrupt here with the following: Miguel, Bryan, Brian D, Anson… I love you guys. But seeing how I never dated any of you – wait, did I? No, I didn’t. I just wanted to make my devotion to you clear…)
I dated a few of these boys with less-than-satisfactory results. Oh, they were never mean to me, but it got tiring lending them $5, or giving him (and five of his buddies) a ride to the mountain with all of their ski gear in my Ford Escort. After about a year or so of dealing with deadbeats, I lowered my standards and declared “The next boy I date will have his very own car. That’s all I want. I want my next date to pick ME up for a change. If they happen to pay for dinner, I will consider marrying them.”
And that’s what happened. The next boy who asked me out not only had his own vehicle, but his own apartment (unheard of!), a decent (and consistent!) job, extremely good-looking, polite (he opened the car door for me!), and didn’t do drugs. He was the holy grail of Summit County. All the girls (all 15 of us) were sweet on him but he chose me. He picked me up in his car, took me out to dinner that HE PAID FOR, then ASKED if he could kiss me goodnight.
I married him.
It sounds like a happily ever after, but it wasn’t. I’m quite convinced that he married me just to get back at his family and have a disguise for his alternative lifestyle. He was from a very “fancy” family; well-off, politically connected, upstanding members of the community, all that jazz. They were simply fabulous. In one of my earlier meetings with them, they actually asked if my family had ever owned slaves. They were against it, you see, and just needed to know. I told them that while my family does have roots deep in the Southern territories that I was not aware if “my people” ever owned slaves. I’m thinking we were more along the lines of plain ol’ commoners and didn’t have the resources to care for any extra staff.
There are many stories I could tell you about what jerks these people were, but my personal favorites always revolve around explaining myself.Â For instance, when introducing me to people, say, at a cocktail party loaded with the elite, they would encourage me to NOT tell others what I did for a living (I was a bank teller) or talk of my family background (I’m a hillbilly).
It was inevitable that I would be asked through clenched teeth and botoxed eyes what I did with myself when I wasn’t attending fabulous parties. So, I made stuff up. Once, I mentioned that I was a professional cheerleader. This caught the attention of what had to be a severely dirty old man. He said he loved professional sports and since he had access to every major stadium in the free world, he must have seen me cheer once or twice. He stared with his lecherous eyes, giving my body extra attention, perhaps even a bit of drool escaping his lips. When he asked which team I cheered for that’s when I explained that my high school – just a little ol’ place in central Ohio – lets me come back whenever I want. Since I’m no longer a student there, they’ve upgraded my status to “professional” so I’m not stepping on any students toes. Needless to say, I left him speechless.
And a new hobby was born. To date, I’ve been a jockey, a snake milker, Barbie dress designer, and, of course, a professional on the Putt-Putt golf circuit.
Fortunately, me and Mr. Fancy-Pants divorced after two years of marriage. He evaporated into the land of fabulous-ness and I was left with my made-up professions. I reflect back on them from time to time and let myself have a good chuckle.
I should have waited for the SECOND guy with a car.
More later 🙂