I always thought golf was a yawner of a sport for the elite. After my recent experience as a beer cart girl, I now I know it’s more of an alcohol-fueled pastime for lecherous old men.
My employer was hosting a charity golf tournament, and I eagerly volunteered to be a beer cart girl. Instead of sitting at a desk all day, I envisioned piloting a golf cart around a beautiful landscape distributing beverages to fit, attractive men in polo shirts. (Preppy is kind of my thing.) There was some of that. But there were also a lot of drunk pervs in their 70s who missed the memo on the Me Too movement.
Thankfully, I had my work bestie with me. I needed someone to share my befuddlement with, and perhaps some assistance fighting off horny geriatrics if they got handsy. Which did almost happen, but more on that in a bit.
We filled up our cooler with donated beer, seltzers, sodas and waters and headed out at 8 a.m. In an attempt not to have to be at the course that early, I had previously asked some golfer friends that no one really wanted beer at 8 a.m., right? They assured me I was wrong. And boy, was I.
This was my first time on an actual golf course. I lack the interest, patience and hand-eye coordination to try the game, myself. Here are the things I didn’t know about golf that I learned that day:
* Men just pee in the bushes on the course, despite the presence of restrooms.
* It was almost entirely men. There was only one all-female team and just a few with women on them at all.
* You can play golf inebriated. I don’t think anything you can do inebriated should be considered a sport.
* You can just drive the carts on that beautiful grass! (Anything you can get your lazy ass in a cart and drive to your next move for also should not be considered a sport.)
* Beer cart girls get tipped!
Anyway, on our very first beverage distribution stop, an old man made a joke to us about lube and buttholes. That pretty much set the tone for the day.
It wasn’t just the old men, either. My fellow beer cart girl friend is young, cute and single, and many of the younger golfers noticed. Offering their digits. Acting like insecure 14-year-olds. Example: One asked us to rate his friend on a scale of 1 to 10 based on appearance. We declined. He said, “It doesn’t matter anyway because he’s queer! Har har har!” I’m sure that was a popular insult for high school sophomores in the 1980s, but it does little to woo women in 2022. Quite the opposite, I’d say.
As the unseasonably cool and drizzly morning wore on, blood alcohol levels among the players rose. One leathery old man pulled his cart up so close to ours that his knee touched mine, and I couldn’t get out. I asked him if he wanted anything. He raised his eyebrows and leered. “From the cooler,” I emphasized, pointing to it. He waggled his eyebrows again and said, “Oh, the cooler. When you asked me if I wanted anything, I was gonna say, does a bear shit in the woods?” I then pulled the cart forward to create an escape route. I didn’t need to, but I was prepared to throw some hands and break some hips.
A golfer friend told me beer cart girls weren’t too much higher than strippers on the “loose women” hierarchy of employment. I have no idea whether that’s true, but I am a white-collar professional in real life who just gave of my time and cart-driving talent that day to ensure everyone was drunk enough to bid stupid amounts of money on the silent auction afterward.
There was some good stuff, though, like tips! The ones who tipped were never the gross ones. My friend wore a V-neck shirt, and I suggested she could put the bills in her bra with a grand gesture to encourage more tips. She declined. I would’ve, but I had a crew-neck T-shirt on, and I probably would have to reach my hand up through the bottom, and cumbersome just isn’t sexy. (We did donate our tips to the charity at the end. Because we’re quality, moral people like that.)
Driving a golf cart is fun - even though a large bug committed suicide on my chest - and my friend and I cracked each other up discussing everything from gross old dudes to real estate. She’s also lucky I’m a mom and that I brought sunscreen so she could use it to prevent sun damage to her décolletage. She’ll thank me when she’s my age.
Despite the light sexual harassment, I had a blast and can’t wait to do it again next year. And if my real job doesn’t work out, I now know I can throw on a push-up bra and a miniskirt and rake in some cash handing out beers to men who think they’re playing a “sport.” Well, if anyone hires 40-year-olds for that gig, anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment