If I freaked out a bit over realizing I married Didgeridoo Boy, the pretty boy from twenty years ago who used to act like Marvin the Martian at my parties, I freaked out even harder about taking him to the Masters yesterday. (Yes, I could have gone back then. I've grown up with access to the tournament. I was too cool to do so, however, back then.) Mohawk Girl took Pretty Boy to the Masters. The freaking Masters, that old-school epic golf thing, a bastion of conservative things and uber-tradition.
Yes, that's me you can see reflected in those shiny tickets. Wearing a GOLF SHIRT - a Masters golf shirt from their "Magnolia Lane" line. I also had on shorts and cute sandals. Why so preppy? It's a preppy kind of place. It's like playing dress up for me - I will rock that shit *hard* at the Masters, doing so is part of the whole "thing" for me. My attire made put the exclamation point on the surreal factor. (Wish I would have worn my golf shoes!)
Never mind that had anyone told me I'd be married to this guy someday back when we were twenty, I would have called MAJOR bullshit, had anyone told me I'd be taking him to the Masters? Whoa.
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