WHAT'S IT ALL ABOUT?

They arrived early. Dave's never early when he picks me up for golf. Never.

Till yesterday. We had a bright and early tee time. It was garbage day. It was dark in the garage. I was rushed. I'm getting older. These are the excuses.

OK, a few more. As I'm loading my golf shoes, bag, and clicker that allows us to get in the less used gate of our community, one neighbor comes over to greet the foursome. Armed with golf balls that have fallen like manna from hole number 6 into his yard, he gives them to one of my buds. Another neighbor, the blond stalker, jogs by and tells me it's a great day for golf.

I hop into the SUV, a little flustered because this is my second time in a row that I, never ever late, have been. I give directions to the course. In AZ there are simply eighty different ways to go to get anywhere and all drivers have their preferences.

We arrive after much sporting conversation. As I'm changing shoes and getting out of the others' ways, my friend Bob says "So where's your Cardinals bag?" as he hoists the clubs from the back. I look and repulse.

It's my wife's golf bag and clubs.

My tools for the round. "Ok. I'm using colored golf balls, so I'm hitting from the womens' tees." More of a defense than an attempt at humor.

Sure, I could have called and CQ would have brought my clubs. I could have forked out a small fortune for rentals. I played her clubs borrowing only driver and three wood from Dave and shot an 87. Just about my normal or average round anyhow.

Does that mean I'm such a good athlete that clubs don't matter? Does that mean I'm metrosexual. Yes. Yes to both, I guess. For either is better than the truth--I'm just stupid.