It began several months ago, in early April, about 45 minutes outside of Paris. I don't remember the name of the town but I think it was in the direction of Fontainbleu. Unlike many French towns, this one wasn't particularly pretty or romantic; a medieval church steeple, all filigree and stonework, was visible from the first hole, but so was a dusty old smoke stack and a rust-cover electrical pole. In any case I was there reluctantly on that blustery Saturday in early spring, with colleagues who had begun playing only a year or so before. I had no clubs and was wearing a very tight pink velour track suit thus felt out-of-place and inappropriate. It got worse when the clubs I rented turned out to be left handed. But... what happened during the slow, plodding course of those 18 unkempt, overgrown holes changed the way I spent the summer, and probably changed the way I'll spend the rest of my life.
That this inauspicious beginning led me to embrace this game says much more about seductive nature of golf than it does about any natural ability I might have - I'm quite certain I have less innate golf ability than most. Despite tons of money spent on lessons, and endless hours on CT courses over the past couple of months, I'm still basically a non player, but now I'm a non player who loves golf. And who's fairly addicted to it. To the extent that I now feel compelled to dedicate a blog to it. Golf Girl's Diary has been launched.