My clumsiness knows no bounds, so I may end up with more postings about that than about cats. I shall do my best to cover both compelling topics. As humiliating as it is, the story of The Golf Cart Incident must be told.
Several years ago I was cheerfully blowing off a golf tournament as I do every year (can you imagine the damage I would do with a club and a ball?) when I was not-so-gently reminded that attending was one of my responsibilities that year. So I sucked it up and agreed to go, but put my foot down on actually playing golf. No problem, I was assured, all you have to do is sit at the hole-in-one hole all day so there is a witness if someone actually gets it.
Driving the golf cart would have been my first big hurdle, but luckily two of us were assigned to hole-in-one duties, and the person I was with drove. We parked in a nice spot up on a hill and decided the most comfortable place to sit was right there in the golf cart. It was pretty boring, so I figured I’d check email. I leaned down to get my purse from the floor of the cart, ugh, just out of reach, lean over just a tad more and…you know what happened then. I hardly have to mention that I fell, hard, out of the cart.
What you may not have guessed is that because we were on a hill, when I tried to get up I was off balance (in so many ways) and fell again, this time rolling down the hill a bit. I had met the person I was with just that morning when we climbed in the golf cart together, so I was a little extra mortified, but I was relieved to see that while he had run down the hill to check on me, there was not another soul in sight. He kindly helped me to my feet and we walked back to the cart.
Okey dokey then, back in the cart and I surely wasn’t going to pull that stunt again. So an hour or so later, I started to get out of the cart so I could safely grab my purse without leaning out of the cart. Safety 1st! It would have been an awesome move had my foot not been tangled in my purse strap. I went to move but my foot didn’t come with me, so I was sort of launched out of the side of the cart where I once again rolled down the hill a bit before I could catch myself.
My new acquaintance once again came down to check on me, but this time when I looked up there were perhaps a half dozen golfers on the other side looking on in interest. There were shouts of “Are you OK?” and I gave a half wave, half flail sort of thing and shouted that I was fine. I shrugged and nodded my head in disgust at myself, and I got a polite golf clap (literally) when I managed to get to my feet without falling again.
After that I sat on the grass instead of in the cart, and there were no further tumbles. At the end of the day we drove back to the clubhouse for a dinner. My companion was definitely concerned that there were not seatbelts in the cart, but I promised I would hold on tight as we drove at the breakneck speed of 2 mph. When we got back I freshened up as best as I could, but ultimately I still had scratches, scrapes, bruises, grass stains and a pretty disheveled look as I pulled the last of the twigs out of my hair.
No problem. I meant to do that.