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I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.
It all began when I was looking up to you as being the older, unattainable, out-of-my-league girls in khaki shorts and a sleeveless polo shirt that would drive to and from the clubhouse serving ice cold domestics to out-of-towners. Then, once one crop moved on and I got a little older and closer in age, we entered the, “Hey, I think know her” territory where I’d see you at parties or bars and you’d sneak me a couple free Labatt’s. But now, I’m entering the age range where not only is it borderline unacceptable for me to hit on you anymore, but I actually am beginning to feel downright bad for doing so.
So, in saying that, allow me to reiterate: I’m sorry, beverage cart girl.
Every round, it begins with one of our group asking the ranger, “Hey, there a beer cart out there?” While he might as well be asking, “Is there a cute piece of college tail driving a cart full of beer out there?”, the golf community has somehow made our over-flirtation socially acceptable on the course. But I’m here to make amends.
Please, allow me to apologize for all those times I called you over to the tee box and said, “Hey, watch this drive,” only to shank it into the woods while all my friends laugh. Each time, you stood there feeling uncomfortable wondering whether you should laugh with them or feel downright bad for me. I know you were just trying to do your job and have zero interest in the game, but still I persisted in trying to impress you.
Forgive me for all the lines I fed to you as you approached. With every “Look who we’ve got here!” and “What’s your story?”, I felt a sense of emptiness that you truly didn’t want to talk to any of us. You wanted to crack open some cold ones, collect your $3-per-beer tip, and move on to the next pervy foursome. But we pressured you into talking to us when you were clearly uninterested in any banter we attempted to engage in. Did we actually care where you went to school or what your major was? With a heavy heart, I can admit that no, in fact, we did not care and that we simply liked the view from our carts. We truly didn’t mean any harm.
Let me express my sincere apologies for being overly invasive while looking in your cooler for my beer of choice. I know, I know, you just told me exactly which beers you had. But I insisted on opening the cooler, shoving my face into it, and digging around for the perfect beer while you stared at my back sweat showing through my technical polo shirt. It was unfair of me to ask how much each beer was when both of us well-knew that I’d be handing you a $10 bill before telling you to keep the change. But still, I crossed into your personal space and I couldn’t feel worse about it.
Too often, I never realized what I was doing when I’d ask you if you could take the trash from my cart. Yet time after time, you’d take my empty cans, the half-eaten hot dog I’d wrap in its original foil, and empty bags of BBQ chips. Ever so nicely, you’d take it all in your hands and make your way to the garbage can just feet away from where we were both parked. I have no explanation for why I thought it was acceptable for you to take it back to the clubhouse or put it on your beverage cart, but you were an angel doing God’s work without batting an eye or making a peep. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.
Now, I’m not here to say that I won’t do all these things in the future. You and I know it’s almost impossible to teach an old dog new tricks, but please just know that I’m self-aware of our inexcusable behavior. Will I ask you multiple times in a round which domestics you have? Will I inquire about your liquor selection before engaging in a discussion about your plans post-graduation? Will I end every conversation with a, “Hope to see you again soon!” joke? Will I ask you for ice only to allow it all to melt in the back of my cart within minutes of receiving it? Of course, I will. Just know that deep down, beneath the machismo oozing from my body, I do feel badly for it all.
But what did you say your name was again? .
Cart girls past and present: Give us your best/worst stories from the course. Creeps, tips, etc. Email tips@postgradproblems.com.
Image via Shutterstock
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Will
Will (Twitter / Instagram) is the host of The Sunday Scaries Podcast.
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When I was like 7, during my first summer allowed on the Muni, I asked my dad why the person driving the gatorade cart was always a girl. He laughed.
It seems a crime that the ages at which you are most likely able to appropriately hit on a beverage cart girl are the same ages you can only afford to play rarely, and on shitty courses at that