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I've discovered that golf and marriage have something in common—they both come with handicaps. In golf, it's a way to level the playing field. In marriage, it's when your wife is a better golfer than you, and suddenly, date night turns into golf lessons. I never thought I'd need a handicap in the game of love. I asked her, "Can't we just play mini-golf, you know, keep it light and fun?" She looked at me like I suggested we go back to the caveman era and communicate with grunts. Apparently, mini-golf is not a real sport. Who knew?
So now, I'm out there, struggling to improve my handicap, both on the golf course and in the game of marriage. I never thought I'd need to negotiate a handicap just to have a fair shot at winning an argument.
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So, my wife thinks golfing is a great way for couples to bond. She says it's therapeutic. Therapeutic? I thought therapy was sitting on a couch, not chasing a tiny white ball around acres of grass. But hey, who am I to argue with the marriage counselor's substitute? We went for a couples golf lesson, and let me tell you, that golf instructor knows more about relationships than Dr. Phil. He's like, "When the ball goes in the hole, that's communication. When it doesn't, that's miscommunication." I'm thinking, "No, that's just a bad swing, buddy."
I tried giving my wife some golfing advice, you know, like they say, "Happy wife, happy life." But apparently, that doesn't apply to the golf course. I suggested she try a different grip, and suddenly, I'm the bad guy. Who knew golfing advice could lead to the silent treatment?
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You know, folks, my wife recently took up golfing. Yeah, golfing! I didn't see that one coming. I thought we were just going through a phase where we argue about who gets control of the TV remote. But now, it's all about clubs and holes, and not in the way you're probably thinking. I thought golf was supposed to be a relaxing sport, you know, a chance to stroll through the greenery and smack a little ball around. Turns out, it's more like a battleground for married couples. Last week, she hit a birdie, and I'm not talking about the golf term. There's a poor bird out there somewhere with a traumatic golf ball encounter.
Now, I've learned to be cautious when she talks about her golf swing. When she says, "Honey, let's work on our swing," I'm not sure if we're heading to the golf course or if it's an invitation to a whole different kind of game in the bedroom. It's a confusing time, folks. I'm just glad the golf balls are small and not, you know, football-sized.
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Last weekend, my wife dragged me to a golf tournament. I didn't even know people watched golf. I thought it was a sport you played when you wanted an excuse to wear goofy pants. But there I was, surrounded by enthusiasts cheering for a ball to roll into a hole. I asked her, "How do you even follow this game? It's like watching paint dry." She said, "It's all about strategy and skill." I replied, "So is chess, but at least they don't make it a weekend-long event."
But the real kicker was when she said, "We should try this at home, you know, have our own golf tournament." I'm thinking, "Sure, honey, let's turn our living room into a golf course. I'll just move the coffee table and dodge flying golf balls while trying to watch the game."
And that, my friends, is how I found myself spending a weekend watching golf, contemplating the complexities of marital golf tournaments, and questioning every life choice that led me to that moment.
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