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.