Thanks for Not Sharing - ideal golf vacation - Brief Article

YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD of me, dear," I told my wife recently, after returning from a weeklong golf trip to Florida with three of my friends. "One day, while we were waiting for a slow group to clear the green ahead of us, I asked Tom what he does for a living."

My wife is appalled that my golf buddies and I never talk about anything except drivers, putters, theories of the golf swing, Stimpmeter readings and whose turn it is to pay for the beer. She thinks we ought to spend at least some of our time doing what she and her friends spend almost all of their time doing--sharing "feelings." She also thinks we are barbarically uncurious about one another's personal lives. Sample conversation:

My wife: "You and Jim have played golf every Sunday for years. Wouldn't you like to invite him and his wife to dinner?"

Me: "Jim is married?"

Despite my question about Tom's job (as it turns out, he's a consultant of some kind), our Florida golf trip was like most great golf trips. Every day had the same agenda: Wake up, drink coffee, eat bacon, play 18 holes, eat lunch, play 18 holes, drink beer, take shower, go to dinner, watch college basketball on TV, go to sleep. (My brother and I once had an even better trip. Before playing 18 holes each day, we took a two-hour lesson; after eating dinner each night, we watched a tape of that day's Masters.)

The best golf trips, unlike vacations that wives plan, never leave you wondering what you will be doing next. There is never an empty three-hour time block in which you might suddenly be expected to look at churches, go shopping or take a nap. You never have to wait between golf and beer, or between beer and shower, or between shower and dinner. When one agreeable activity ends, another begins.

There was only one day during our Florida trip that didn't proceed according to plan. We had finished our second round early. There wasn't enough daylight left to play nine more holes, but there was still too much time before dinner. What we ended up doing--I'm kind of ashamed to admit this--was play tennis.

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