Because my husband and I looked around at our situation in life and decided we had too much money (meaning we only have to eat Spam and ramen three days a week now instead of the usual seven), too much free time (now that we’ve maximized on the hours between midnight and four when we used to lay there doing nothing), and some calories that needed to be burned (not even going to explain that one), we decided to take up golf.

Let me explain what taking up golf means: well, wait, there’s really no need to decipher that for you. You’ve already got the visual, I’m sure.

Basically, we bought our dream house about five years ago and it happens to overlook the eleventh hole on a golf course. And other than sitting on our porch with coffee in the mornings and listening to people as early as six am whacking at golf balls, it’s never really made an impact on our lives.

Until now.

When my husband tried to tempt me with promises of how much fun it was going to be, I actually wasn’t a really hard sell. I like trying new things, I like being outside, and I like sports that require specific and goofy outfits. I did have two rules, however: 1) I’m not walking anywhere, and 2) I’m not playing thirsty, and by thirsty I actually mean sober. He was fine with my rules, so we launched our golf careers.

Luckily, we were already members of this country club because they happen to have a pool and we take the kids there every summer. It was a slight upgrade to include golf, and my brother-in-law had some old clubs he could loan us. We were set.

Our membership includes a free bucket of balls to hit at the driving range each day, so that’s where we decided to start. We would get really comfortable (re: look less stupid) at the driving range before actually attempting to play on the course. We were a go for golf!

Until we actually tried it and discovered there’s a reason they planted a wall of trees between the driving range and the nearby homes. I never actually heard glass breaking, but it could be that the homeowners had already replaced all of their windows with a combination of Plexiglass and gelatin sheeting before I ever tried.

While it was hard work and a little frustrating, the first round of hitting the balls from the driving range was actually going much better than I’d envisioned. Of course, I’d had enough limeritas by that point that it’s possible my awesome-looking ball hitting was all hallucination, and I didn’t care.

With only one ball left for each of us to hit, the unthinkable happened.

There I was, minding my own business, when a sharp pain in my very lower back indicated that my husband had teed off and hit me square in the ass with a golf ball. I crumpled like a washed up boxer with a glass jaw. My husband ran to my aid and (wait for it) pulled me up to standing so he could pull the waistband of my shorts down and see if there was actually a dent there. As he stood there publicly rubbing my ass, he yelled, “Please don’t blog about this!”

It was horrific, only made worse by the fact that I couldn’t keep a straight face long enough to make him feel really, really bad. I tried limping and clutching my back, hoping at least for another limerita out of this if not actual jewelry, but it was so damn funny that I couldn’t stop laughing while my mascara ran down my cheeks from the tears of pain.

Eventually the sharp stinging and exploding eye floaters subsided enough for him to fold me tenderly into the car. As we drove off, he started to say something but then stopped himself, declaring it was “too soon” to say it.

“It’s already out there, buddy, I know you started to say something. Go ahead, don’t be a coward!”

He looked at me as sympathetically as he could and said, “I’m really glad I hit you and not that old man!”