My husband is an average guy. Like most men he helps around the house, minimally, (I have to tell him when it’s time to vacuum because apparently until I do he can’t see any dirt). He doesn’t really cook except to make croutons, which is an excruciating process that takes over half my kitchen. He does however, do dishes (I think he sees it as the price he pays for food) He’s never cleaned a bathroom in his life and likely never will but he does help with the laundry,,,,except folding fitted bed sheets,,,,they really confuse him, so he just rolls them into a big ball and leaves them for me.
In short I’d say he’s pretty typical,,,,until it comes to his ‘toys’, the favourite being golf toys, balls specifically. He can’t have enough. My garage holds all the things you’d expect to find in a garage, buckets, tires, tools, holiday lights, shovels, gardening equipment, etc. The only difference is all of these things have golf balls in them. There’s shoe boxes without shoes, rubber boots and grocery bags full of golf balls, flower pots full of,,,not flowers, wait for it,,,,golf balls. I hazard a conservative guess that there’s well over a thousand golf balls stashed in my garage and it doesn’t end there.
When I was hosting the rehearsal dinner for my sons wedding I had ordered 13 rotisserie chickens. When I picked them I made sure to clear out the trunk of my husbands car so I could line them all up flat across the trunk to ensure there was no risk of them over turning. While driving home with my cargo I heard a whoosh and thumping coming from the trunk but I disregarded it because I knew I’d cleared everything out. When I got home and opened the trunk my chickens were covered in a sea of golf balls. Unbeknownst to me there’s a hidden shelf in the upper back of my husbands car where he stashed dozens of balls, all of which came cascading onto my chickens.
Now I’ve indulged my darling this little fetish because until very recently it never posed any real threat to his safety, it was just weird. (did I mention that he periodically pulls some of his stash out and washes them? He spreads them out to dry all over my kitchen counter then neatly loads them all back into boxes, boots, pots, bags, whatever, and stuffs them back into the garage, or the closets, or the trunk of his car….this guy’s certifiable)
Anyway, recently we were visiting family in Toronto, where he returns once a year to play his home course (I visit with family and friends, which is what most sane people do on vacation) and it was here that his compulsion for collecting golf balls finally posed a risk to his safety.
After playing 18 holes of golf, my husband decided to play another few holes alone and while he rounded the course hitting his balls he scoured the rough for any stray balls to add to his collection (because the thousand balls he has aren’t enough) Eventually he came to a riverbank where he spied a plethora of balls shimmering in the river bed,,,,JACKPOT! No one was around so he felt courageous (or stupid) and decided to brave the currents.
Now I should preface this by noting that the day before we had had a heavy downpour so the river was higher than normal and fast flowing. This would typically cause one to take caution but my husbands obsession with getting those balls over ruled any logic, so he approached the riverbank. Clutching 3 golf clubs in one hand he stepped onto a patch of tall grass,,,at least that’s what he thought it was. Turns out the tall river grass had flattened down from the weight of the rain water and when he stepped onto it he quickly realized there was nothing below, i.e., no ground. Falling forward into his empty step he toppled head over heels into the river. Panicking he focused only on righting himself so that he could get above the water and stand, and when he did he was minus his glasses and one of the three golf clubs he was holding (the latter was a bigger concern to him because it was ‘his new wedge’) He also injured the tendons of his hand, the one clutching his clubs (because holding on to his prescription glasses wouldn’t occur to him)
Now, like most, he was shaken by the events, but not enough to deter him. He gave up on the notion of getting the balls in the water, and his glasses were long gone with the current, but clutching his two remaining clubs he made his way to the edge of the river and climbed out. Soaked through and muddy he did what any normal male would do,,,,,he went back onto the green and finished up his hole.
Eventually he squirshed his way back up to the clubhouse ignoring the curious stares, where he showered and changed into dry clothes. He recounted the tale to a few golf buddies in the clubhouse and mentioned to the boys in the pro shop that he’d lost his new wedge (the fact that he couldn’t see three feet in front of him without glasses was irrelevant) and pitifully showed them his injured hand.
Later that day he was to meet me at my fathers’ house for dinner but it’s hard to drive when you can’t see, so he took the public transit, groping his way to my fathers’ where he once again recited his tale. I pointed out that he was lucky he didn’t hit his head in the tumble and knock himself out – he could’ve surely drowned in that river,,,, but he was till stewing over the lost wedge and concerned that his injured tendons would now affect his grip.
Now this tale does have a happy ending in that we were able to have his old glasses couriered to us (thanks to a kind neighbor who was more than happy to help after she stopped laughing) so he could once again drive. And his missing wedge had been fished out of the river at some point and anonymously returned to his golf bag, so you would think that in all this he would’ve learned a lesson. This could’ve ended very differently, tragically, and it should’ve been a wake-up call, but it wasn’t. Only days after we’d returned home he was out on the course, looking for stray balls in the woods. It would appear that a boy and his balls are never parted, for long. Now a rational mind????? Apparently that was left in the river!