Destined to remain a golf widow

Sorry, guys. For that matter, I apologize to some of the ladies, too. But I just don't understand the game of golf.

Whoever invented the sport must have been so extremely frustrated and so angry at the world that he decided to make everyone around him equally suicidal. Hitting a tiny ball with a big stick and trying to get it into a little hole not much bigger than the ball itself just doesn't make sense.

You can't even see the target when you first swing, so how do you know where to aim? Sure, there's a "fairway," but can you see the "flag" from the tee? Sometimes you can, sometimes you can't. No wonder so many shots land in water or sand traps or woods or even in another group's golf car.

Speaking of golf cars, why does everyone assume golfers get so much exercise? Driving to wherever your ball lands, getting out and swinging a stick does not constitute exercise to me. The pro golfers on TV never use cars. Sure, they get exercise, but even I'd walk for $10 million a year or whatever outrageous amount they make.

And another thing, what is this crazy compulsion golfers have to never, ever, miss a game? You'd think somebody's life were on the line. I have been told several times, "No, honey, I can't do that today. So-and-so is expecting me at the club. You don't understand. I can't just not show up. It isn't done." He should be so faithful to me. If I were younger and pregnant, God forbid, he'd make me promise not to go into labor until after the match.

Oh, and another thing; golf is not a cheap sport by any means. I had asked him for a Lladro figurine for Christmas from Windsor Jewelers, and you'd have thought I'd asked for the Hope Diamond. He was actually insulted that I ask for something that expensive. Got news for him. He must not realize that I know how much he spends on golf. The figurine was worth about two months of his beloved hobby.

Guess I'll remain a golf widow forever. I did show him, though. I've been purchasing Lladro on my own. Charged them on his account, too. He doesn't care. Just goes around calling them those "yard dog" things I bought because he played golf so much.

(Pat Fickle is a Martinez resident.)