July 31, 2004
What made me think I could ever be happy dating a guy who kept a set of golf clubs in the trunk of his car and who spent way too many afternoons "hitting some balls" with one polo-shirted, khaki-panted, loafer-footed, pole-assed business associate or another at some country club? What made me think I could ever be thrilled to tell my friends, "This fellow I'm seeing ... well, girls, he golfs! A lot! I am so very proud!"? I would have been prouder to introduce them to a scabby, balding, nail-biting, drooling leper in a satin smoking jacket and coordinating ascot.