Golf widow

Yesterday was a gorgeous day--sunshine and reasonably warm temps. Hubbie took advantage of the balminess to join his golfing buddies for the day, which meant that he wasn't here for his ritual 10 a.m. Saturday chat with his mother. I substituted for him, which was okay since I happen to adore my mother-in-law and always enjoy talking to her. We chatted for over an hour, which is a very long time for me to be on the telephone with anyone. The older I get, the less I like talking on the phone. It must have been "in the air" yesterday, though, since I also spent over an hour talking with my soon-to-be-a-lawyer son.

My son had great news to report. A paper he had written on international shipping was selected for presentation at a conference in Barcelona, Spain. He himself doesn't get to go (and couldn't, anyway, since he'll be in the midst of studying for and taking the bar), but his professor will present the paper and he'll get credit. He was so happy, and who could blame him? We all need verification now and then, of our intelligence, of our hard work, of our abilities.

But back to the topic in the title: golf widowhood. It irritates me when my husband asks meekly, "Do you mind if I go play golf tomorrow?" [Inevitably, he's already booked a tee-time when he asks.] Of course, there's no good answer to that "when did you stop beating your husband" question. I can't say, "Yes, I mind," since that really isn't the truth. I just wish he'd phrase it more like "I'd like to play golf tomorrow, but before I schedule it, will it interfere with anything you wanted to do?" After all, sometimes I do have things scheduled. I wouldn't dream of scheduling anything just for myself, though, unless I knew ahead of time that it wouldn't screw up any plans we'd made. Conveniently, dear spouse forgets when I tell him ahead of time that he'd said we could finally take in the Andy Warhol exhibit at our local museum, or that he'd agreed to go with me to Sam's Club to shop for new deck chairs. Whatever. I just don't like to be asked, like I'm his mother, whether I mind if he goes out to play.

I do confess, though, to feeling entitled to something nice in exchange for all the time and money he devotes to golf. He fusses when he sees a $20 charge on my AmEx if he doesn't think it was money well spent. So all I have to do is say, "Golf." Not that I myself am playing golf--it's just my cryptic way of reminding him that compared to his clubs and fees and lunches with the "boys" and gas spent driving to courses 40 miles away, my self-indulgent expenses pale.

The two-inch-thick memory foam mattress topper that I bought recently is one such self-indulgent expense that is some of the best money I've ever spent. I don't think the esteemed one enjoys it as much as I do, but my whole body feels better after only two nights of sleeping with the memory foam topper. I hadn't realized that our mattress was getting so uncomfortable. It's nearly 20 years old, and while that's young for a mattress in some households (my mother-in-law keeps mattresses for lifetimes), apparently the mattress is old enough to feel hard and unyielding. I keep expecting the hubbie to complain that the memory foam is too warm, so I've gone ahead and started our warm-weather ritual of leaving the ceiling fan on all night. Soon I'll be able to open the bedroom windows. Then we'll graduate to having the attic fan on all night. I'll sleep with an extra cover, and he'll sleep with only a sheet. That's when he'll start his campaign to take the memory foam off the bed. I expect we'll eventually wind up sleeping in separate beds (extra-long twin beds pushed side-by-side), just so we can get the sleep environment we want.

As for the time hubbie spends playing golf, I honestly don't mind. What I mind is being awakened before dawn by his alarm clock. They always pick the earliest times they can get, so he's up and out of the house by 7 a.m. Then after golf, they eat at whatever restaurant is convenient. Then hubbie has to chauffeur his buddy Dave back to his house, so when he gets home (early afternoon), he is capable of little more than staggering through the door to collapse for a lengthy nap. I know better than to plan any activities for that day, especially ones that make noise. As we go through the summer, at least one day a week (two or three is likely) will be golf days. That's okay. I have lots of projects to do, lots of trips to the arts and crafts stores, lots of golden hours spent painting, sewing, doing crafts. Happiness.

But, first I have to finish up this semester. We have about a month left. Last summer was spent teaching that GRE Vocabulary course and finishing the dissertation, and then I was thrust immediately into a new work environment, with learning how to teach online courses, and as a result, I am just simply tired. If I get asked to teach this summer, I hope I have the good sense to say no. Far too often, I open my mouth to say no, but the word "yes" comes out. Face it--I'm a pushover. If I weren't such a pushover, I might not be such a golf widow. Dr. S.