Number of people I asked if they wanted to go to the first practice day of the PGA Tournament, before I asked Gary: 2.
Number of times I asked Gary, “Are you SURE you want to go? Because I have lots of other people I can ask”: at least ten.
Number of people I should have asked instead of Gary: infinity.
Number of fights we had before we even left for the tournament: 1.
Number of degrees Fahrenheit at the start of the tournament: 80.
Number of people wearing “business casual” pants, as per the PGA: 0
Number of degrees Fahrenheit one hour later: 97.
Number of times Gary complained about the heat: 1,000,000.
Number of times Gary complained about wearing pants and not shorts: 1,000,000.
Number of times Gary expressed dissatisfaction about something other than the heat and the shorts: 5,000,000.
Number of times Gary said something positive: 1. (It wasn’t to me, but to some random woman who was worried about something.)
Number of hours we were there before we had to leave because of the heat and the shorts (and, I suspect, the country club environment): 4.
Number of words we said to each other the rest of the day: 0.
However, on the plus side …
Number of recognizable golf figures: 2. No Tiger, he was taking an ice bath that day, but Rory McIlroy was there (with his signature golf clubs dressed up as dogs), and also a famous guy known as “Fluff” (Tiger’s former caddy).
Number of Clydesdales I saw: 12. First, three Clydesdales were hanging out by the merchandise tent on our way out. I was on the forced death march to the car so I wasn’t allowed to stop. Karma was watching, though, and we were nose to nose with a full-on Clydesdale Budweiser firewagon parade a few minutes later.
Number of times I got on the golf green: 1. There’s an odd spot where the walking path intersects with the green. It looks for a bit like you’re on a miniature golf course. I made a point of walking on the green. I felt there were people there dreaming of being on the green at a tournament, and now I can tick that off my bucket list.
Number of people stranded on the parking lot the next day: 1,000. Really. There was a rain delay so everyone on the south lot had to cool their heels until the rain stopped up north. So, dodged that bullet.
Number of PGA-related Goodyear blimps I saw on the way home today: 1. I’m a sucker for blimps, Clydesdales, and giant gas station signs. Any huge advertisement, really. Weinermobiles. Water towers shaped like catsup bottles. They make me happy.
And finally, number of sex dreams I had that night: 1. In a rather pointed narrative my subconscious whipped up, I was a teenage girl on a date with a teenage boy. He held my hand for the first time and I was very excited. Then he put his arm around me and it was … well it was thrilling. You remember how it was. When you were first dating. When everything was fresh, and new, and YES I GET IT SUBCONSCIOUS. Starting over again instead of being married 33 years. Sigh. I woke up before I did anything untoward, but I still felt like I’d cheated on Gary.