Yes, I’m A Woman At A Golf Store

I feel like my experience at golf stores is NOT like yours.

I could be wrong. But I’m probably not.

I’ve started to notice a pattern; I spend a lot of time in stores like Golf Galaxy, the PGA Superstore and others, as well as at golf trade shows. And every time, I experience a variation of the same two things.

1. The stares.

I’m not ugly. I can rock a golf skirt without causing any physical discomfort to those who happen to see me. I’m not model hot or something to drool over, but I don’t run away when I look in a mirror. However, the light in a golf store must be the same shit they use on the runways of Milan because these dudes have NO shame.

Employees and customers alike have stopped what they’re doing to watch where I go. They’ll come out of nowhere to start a conversation, all the while BLATANTLY staring down my golf shirt. I even had a run-in with an employee recently: he cornered me by the golf gloves to ask prying questions about my relationship status. Just when I thought I’d successfully dodged the intrusive inquiry, he followed up by saying, “if you do have a man, you should come to (club he teaches at) for lessons, and never tell him.”

It’s disgusting. It’s offensive. It’s disrespectful, to me and to their significant other if they have one. I’m not dumb- we all look when we see something we like. Completely natural. And to an extent I’m putting myself on display by spending my afternoon shopping at golf stores with a predominantly older clientele. I stick out, I get it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m human and in most cases, the guy looking is married. His wife wouldn’t be caught dead in the store though, so he’ll never get caught.

2. The assumptions.

Even when employees and customers treat me with the basic respect that other humans deserve, they still don’t have a high opinion of me. They just see a young, not-ugly female walking around a golf store and assume I know NOTHING about the sport or what I’m looking at.

No, I don’t need you to point me to the women’s section. I can, in fact, read.

No, I don’t need a free club fitting for those bedazzled Callaway clubs. I have my own set and fuck rhinestones.

No, you can’t convince me into whatever scam you’re pitching today. I’m both an adult and financially savvy.

No, you don’t need to speak in layman’s terms. I know what a birdie is. I know what a lie is. I know what most things are.

Yes, I know what equipment I need for the driving range. I guarantee you I spend more time there than you do.

Yes, I know that the glove goes on my left hand since I’m a right-handed player.

Yes, I’m planning to USE the shit I’m buying. It’s not a gift for my boyfriend/father/brother/matronly mother.

To be honest, I probably know more about golf than most people who sell golf clubs for a living. I can tell you about last week’s tournament. I can tell you where Rickie Fowler went to school. I can tell you who’s known as “the King” and who’s known as “The Golden Bear.” I can tell you the four majors and even the unofficial fifth. I can tell you who’s sponsored by whom. I can tell you where Henrik Stenson is from.

But can any of those people tell me what color my eyes are? No. No, they can’t.


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