June 18, 2014 by Karin Fuller

t peeWhen I took up golf last summer, I quickly learned I had much to master.

Keeping my knees bent and my left arm straight and my wrists together and my eyes on the ball.

Golf involves every part of a person’s body. Including their bladder.

Actually, that’s the one thing about golf I don’t understand. This sport seems to embrace the consumption of beer in a way few other sports do. Although I generally stick with just water myself, most courses either sell beer or allow patrons to bring their own. Some even have beer carts that continuously travel the course, bringing beverages directly to you, in case you’ve run out.

Apparently golf is accepted as being such a frustrating game the only way people will continue to play is if they’re provided a way to buffer the pain and forget.

Yet besides inebriation, pregnancy, and entertaining Super Bowl commercials, what else is beer known for? The speed with which it travels through the body.

Yet few courses have bathrooms anywhere but the clubhouse.

My boyfriend and I recently played Sandy Brae, north of Charleston. It’s a beautiful course—hilly, long, and challenging. It’s especially challenging when it’s hot and the course is crowded and the play is slow and you’ve been drinking lots of water to stay hydrated.

And you aren’t as conveniently constructed as a man.

Even though I’ve had recurring nightmares about Porta Potties, I would’ve joyously embraced one somewhere around the 14th hole.

I tried playing through the pain, but it simply wasn’t working.

“Just go over there, behind that tree,” Didier said, pointing toward an area just down a little slope a short distance from our next tee. There was no one around, and a hillside behind it.

At first, I refused, but the people playing ahead of us were so slow and we were still far from the clubhouse. It soon became apparent I had little choice.

The thing is, I recognize my general lack of grace, and remain haunted by my only previous attempt at finding relief during a camping trip several years back. That time, a large spider chose the worst possible moment to scamper across my foot, and the resulting leg-washing (and spider drowning) had been such that I ended up having to bathe in the icy waters of a Buckhannon creek at midnight.

Now, I was wearing an unwieldy golf skort—a skirt with shorts sewn in—so managing a quick emptying wouldn’t be simple.

“I’ll stand guard,” Didier said, posting himself above. “Go on.”

I grabbed a tissue and hurried down the slope, and just about the time I assumed the outrageously awkward position, I heard Didier’s voice.

“Oh, hey, guys! I didn’t see you there,” he said. “Wait! You might not want to go down there…”

There were no spiders to drown but had there been, they’d have survived just fine.

There had been no “guys.” But his scare was so effective I finished the course without any more longing looks to the bushes.

Plus I had something new to be grateful for.

That he didn’t get me to take up skiing instead.

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