Cave Person Day at the Palace Golf Club and Spa

Today we had the privilege of golfing at and enjoying the services of the Palace Golf Club and Spa in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico. However, it wasn't as glamorous as it sounds.

I started playing golf fairly recently, in fact the word 'playing' may be an exaggeration, I have the equipment and go through the motions but I still don't think I am justified in saying I play golf. My first time out I think I broke every single rule, every one. In attempt to be efficient and help my brother I apparently walked across his 'line' when I should have walked around and avoided the vicinity of his ball entirely. I also made the mistake, on several occasions, of taking a practice swing while someone was 'addressing the ball'. Being totally out of his sight, I thought this was acceptable, but apparently the swish of air caused by my club was a disruption to their zen-like state of concentration. I had a hard time keeping track of my shadow too, it had to be watched every minute lest it interfere with someone's concentration or strategy or whatever it is they were doing in the five minutes they took to stare at the ball, then the hole, then the ball, and the hole again. Normally when playing games at my house (Monopoly, Cards, etc.) we have some kind of time limit on turns which is usually supported and enforced by everyone. But all of a sudden the whole idea of timed turns went out the window in favor of totally silent, standing, staring acceptance of long, drawn-out indecision. Man alive! I have a hard time being instructed about polite behavior when my dad is the instructor, but when I got shhhh'd for groaning after someone's tenth practice swing, and reprimanded by my 11, 15, and 17 year-old brothers for impolite behavior, it was absolutely irritating and unacceptable! They took great pleasure in pointing out my stupidity. I was shocked that my brothers who have no problem burping loudly in the middle of a family dinner or spontaneously erupting in fistfights in public were turned into masters of restraint and propriety just because they were on a golf course. It was some kind of parallel universe where they were the smart and sophisticated ones who totally understand sports and I was the sloppy, stupid, cave-person who wandered into the path of flying golf balls, knocked branches off trees with inadvertent swings of her giant club, or the equivalent of someone who stands up and tells the refs to call traveling at a football game! I don't like being the blithering idiot, but I didn't give up. I wanted to get good, so good in fact that I could be the one who steps up, addresses the ball, hits a beautiful drive, and looks over my shoulder with that look that absolutely says 'That is how it's done.'

Unfortunately I'm not there yet. I spent most of our 18-hole round in the sand, although that was not due entirely to my lack of skill...this course had an unusually large number of sand bunkers. After hitting my first sand shot, an ugly one that barley cleared the sand and landed on the edge of rough between the bunker and the green, I thought I would head over to my ball and continue to play. So, that's just what I did. I was not aware of this unwritten golf rule that governs sand traps 'When one is in the sand, one leaves the bunker along the same path one went in. Then one erases every TRACE of evidence that one was ever present in the bunker." Like the cave person that I apparently become on the course, I had tromped across almost the entire thing and left footprints larger and deeper than I would like to admit. My putting woes continued today as well, every time I get that putter in my hand I seem to turn into Grog the alpha cave person who has to prove his strength by yelling "I am Grog, see me putt!!" and putting with great gusto (off the green in some cases).However, my prehistoric cave-dweller ways came roaring out much more when I arrived at the Spa. I had an appointment to get a massage, but I let someone else take it because, well because I didn't want to get one. I had my book, the sun, and a nice lounge chair and I didn't think a stranger greasing up their hands and rubbing them all over me would be any more relaxing than that. I did however decide to get the manicure and pedicure. I was a little nervous about the whole thing, mostly because we are in Mexico and I was worried about being the only English-speaker and not understanding what was going on. However, I realized that I am no more a minority or out-of-the-loop here than I am at hair salons back home. I walk in, am assigned one of the many blond hair-dressers, and they ask what I want done to my hair. I give my usual response "Cut a couple inches and color." Then the blondes start asking questions of me, the neanderthal brunette who doesn't understand words like 'layering' or colors like 'auburn', and I am reduced to grunting once again, "Cut same, color same." I can usually refrain from chest pounding, but there is a lot of awkward pointing. Once they decide what they are going to do with me though, I am usually pretty good at sitting still and not getting in their way.

Today however, was another story. The first thing I had to do was pick a color for my nails....once again more awkward pointing and some grunting, "Toes (point), fingers (point)." Then there was a lot of dipping, rubbbing, pruning, and generally strange hand stuff. I never knew where to put the hand that wasn't being worked on. At first I thought, oh I'll just follow where she puts the other hand. I learned that was the wrong thing to do when both of my hands would not fit in the tiny bowl of water she had placed my right hand into. She quickly removed my left hand and said, "No." It was like I was worse than a cave person, like I was a dog! While she was painting one finger, I apparently kept touching nails she had already painted to the cloth and my other fingers....she had to repaint one nail 4 times because I kept messing it up. We went over to the pedicure chair and I realized I still had my golf shoes on, "Not a problem," I thought, "I'll just take them off." So I reached down and started untying them. When Thelma turned around she twitched like she was about to reach down and stop me, but then she changed her mind. I think she'd given up. I just went on merrily untying, then when I was in the chair realized I had just messed up three nails. The most embarrassing part was yet to come however. Having never had a pedicure, I did not know that I apparently have very very ticklish feet. When Thelma started using the scrubby thing (no idea what that is called) and the little toe-bush thing (is there a technical name for this?) I giggled out loud. She stopped for a minute and I said, "Tickles." She nodded knowingly and bent low, working intently. Then it happened. My leg twitched, not a lot, but just a quick little tickle reflex, and my foot hit her face! I apologized profusely, she was fine, it was really only a tap. The real problem is that I couldn't stop giggling for the duration of the pedicure. It was ticklish, I was a little sleep deprived, and my foot hitting her face was kind of funny. Once again, I was the cave person, this time laughing at the slapstick humor of someone getting hit in the face! I walked out of the spa shamefacedly shoeless (I hadn't brought any shoes other than golf shoes and my nails hadn't dried)...just like cave persons of old.