Brenda and I are taking an abbreviated tour of the game known to the free world as golf.  We are doing so with an instructor who generously offers his skill and experience to our uncouth group in exchange for a draft from our bank accounts. Charitable, no?

Last night was our first class in a month-long series of weekly gatherings. I rushed home, very chicken-with-my-head-cut-off-ish, having not taken a breath since I bounced from work to the gym, from the gym to Sarah's apartment, from Sarah's apartment to the fruit basket and that tasty post-workout banana, from the banana to the shower, from the shower to the piece of toast I practically inhaled to appease the growling belly, and lastly from the appeased belly to the country club.

The class gathered and the highly personable instructor chewed his lip, thinking we were missing one person. After a moment or two, wherein he realized the staggering, overall experience of the group rivaled that of a tabby cat, he decided to start the class on time and let the truant wander in as they pleased.

Which she did...sneaking up behind Brenda and asking from the side of her mouth what had been covered in her absence. Brenda replied in kind, and the lady with the fetching figure and long blond hair sauntered away like she owned the world and no longer had time for our dorky duo. Before I continue on, let me remind you that Brenda and I are women. We're catty. "The fairer sex" is a misnomer. We're also very polite, having been trained in the fine art of two-face-ism.

I'm sure the tardy one is a very nice lady, not that it really matters.

We spent the class getting a feel for the body movements, and we all separated to our own little area to practice...Brenda and I remaining in close proximity, naturally, to talk smack about the blond chick who was, seemingly, taking up most of our instructor's time. Meanwhile, Brenda shared with me her secret to lining up a shot: (A) place the ball right in front of the hole; (B) swing.

At one point, as dusk began to gather, Brenda hissed, "He's spending a lot of time with that pretty blond," sending spittle to flight with her P.

I smiled sickly and pseudo-cried for Brenda's ears alone, "Hey! We're...uh...pret blond, too!"

He didn't know what he was missing. In the time he spent with that lady, Brenda decided that her breasts were hindering her golf form. She would have gladly taken pointers on what to do with them had he been around, I'm certain. Afterwards, we stopped at the grocery store and Brenda and I decided from tonight's taste that golf will be something we'll most definitely enjoy.

But how to get the instructor's attention? Brenda muttered in the produce section, "We have vaginas, too!—and next week, we're gonna use 'em!" The statement caught me off guard and I barked a laugh. We almost donned come hither stares and did laps around the citrus fruit with ♀-painted flags to bring up the team morale, but then our true nature reemerged and we were filled with thoughts of food, never to speak of sexual prowess again.