So my husband has picked up the sport of disc golf. Or disc golfing. Not frisbee golf. Certainly not. They aren’t frisbees; they are discs, and there are different discs for driving (distance and fairway) and for putting, made by different manufacturers out of different sorts of plastic (all non-recyclable in the greater Chattanooga area) and in a variety of colors. And there are terms for the specific ways you throw the discs (backhand, forehand, hyzer, anhyzer, roller, overhand, pancake, worm burner). There’s even a Professional Disc Golf Association. These guys are for real. They have courses all over the WORLD. They have a tour. They hold tournaments; you can become a member (!).
Under the “Rules” on their website, the PDGA states, “The growing popularity of the game of disc golf begins with the essential fact that throwing a flying disc with power and accuracy is a marvelous sensation.” Yes, isn’t it? They go on, “The constant challenge, the social nature of the game, the good physical and mental conditioning, and the fact that it is inexpensive to begin play are also attractions. Disc golf is a recreational sport for everyone, regardless of age, gender, or ability.”
Right, it’s a great recreational sport if you tend to throw a flying disc with power and accuracy, if you’re patient, like being outdoors all seasons of the year, don’t have a propensity to yell “FUCK!” or kick the air when something doesn’t go quite as you expected, and you don’t have two extra bodies to cart around everywhere.
So it’s perfect for Daniel.
I had a professor (a SWM, if that matters) who said once, “Men are really very simple. Just pat them on the head and give them some pizza, and they’ll be happy.” He also said, “You know he’s your husband because he’s the one eating cake over the sink in his underwear.” Now, both of these statements seem to bear a lot of truth.
First, there’s nothing quite like catching your honey doing something explicitly private like plucking an especially long and bothersome nose hair while he drives or licking that last drip of honey off the mouth of the jar or taking a much-too-big bite in a way that says, “I know we’re in the middle of a conversation, but it’ll just have to wait 4 minutes while I masticate this down to a reasonable size.” And I don’t know if it’s seeing a man eating over the kitchen sink in his underwear that proves he’s your husband, or if it’s the sheepish look he gives you upon being caught. The look to communicate, “Yes, I know I’m disgusting. Please love me anyway.”
Second, men really are very simple. Most men I know like a short list of common things: sports, beer and girls. I’m not trying to over-simplify the gender, so here are a few other things that men may like: music, video games, arm wrestling and beer. Really, though, I think the point is that it takes so little to keep most men happy. Take Daniel, for example. He doesn’t require much as far as food or clothing. His only ridiculous personal care habit is his 20 minute oral care routine (ok, he does take really long showers, too). He doesn’t care to watch ball games at bars or waste his precious little time in front of the television (even when we did have one). He needs far less time alone than I do. He rarely spends money, especially on himself.
So when he tried to manipulate me into buying him a disc golf basket, I said, “Cut the crap; your voodoo manipulation has no power over me. Buy it for yourself, that way you get the one you want.” Kidding. Not really. I did tell him to buy the one he wanted because it was “PDGA approved!! Isn’t that awesome!?” He wasn’t waiting for a go-ahead on the purchase, but maybe he was. I think what he really wanted was for me to validate his dorkiness. He wanted me to prove that his dorkiness is important enough to me. He wanted me to shake my head, roll my eyes and say “You’re an überdork, but you’re my überdork. And I love you anyway.” When I did he sort of chortled, sidled up to me, hunched over and tucked his nose under my chin; he nuzzled me.
It came in by way of UPS on December 23rd, in time for his birthday and Christmas. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. And took a bunch of pictures because he was THAT happy.