Golfing Barefoot

Yesterday evening when we started pulling our golf clubs out of the back of Conservative Boy's vehicle for our usual quick Monday evening 9, I realized I was missing something. My golf shoes. And my golf sandals. And any form of footwear, except the worn out flip flops I'd donned before leaving the house.

Oops.

There wasn't time to run home for golf shoes, and I didn't really want to mess with driving home anyway. So I just hopped in the cart and off we went. (Usually I walk during the week, but it was almost 100 degrees and I wasn't exactly wearing appropriate footwear!)

Most shots, I kicked my flops off and hit barefoot. I'm sure there are rules against barefoot golfing. In fact, I'm positive there are. But I watched where I stepped and was fully aware of the hazards. And golfing barefoot is a heck of a lot easier than trying to keep your feet in a pair of flops, trust me.

I'm no stranger to golfing barefoot anyway. In high school, many nights at practice I'd take off my golf sandals, strap them to my bag, and play 9 barefoot. I love the feeling of cool grass between my feet. Besides, shoes—even golf sandals—can be so constricting. If I had my way, I'd be barefoot all day. (Oh wait, I usually am ...)

That cool grass felt particularly nice last night. It was steamy. Really steamy. (And quiet—apparently not many people like golfing when it's that hot out.)

I can't really complain about my round either. I shot a 45, barefoot. And I hadn't played in quite a while. And I blew up on the last hole.

Oh, and did I mention I beat Conservative Boy? That always makes a round that much sweeter.

(He'll say I didn't though. He'll say I cheated. That's what he always says if I play from the women's tees and beat him. Somehow, I can't seem to convince him that it's not cheating if you're a woman playing from the women's tees.)