I’m currently working on my backswing – and my love life.
Let me set the scene: I’m in Washington, D.C., for the week, representing Miss New Hampshire on a random side quest. My week was a blur of shaking hands with politicians, sprinting around the National Mall in heels, reapplying lipstick in the bathroom of the Lithuanian Embassy, eating a pastry in the hallway of the Senate (because no one told you breakfast wasn’t included) and constantly explaining to my friends that this was not a pageant – I’m actually here for diplomacy,
Somewhere in the chaos, I agreed to go on a date with a guy from Georgetown. A Friday night break from my world of official duties and not having to wear a sash sounded like exactly what I needed.
He was cute, polite, nice and from Boston – which as Miss New Hampshire made him 10% more attractive by regional default. It seemed casual, yet promising.
Out of all the roommates to be paired with for the week, the universe decided to pair me with Miss Massachusetts to keep the New England connections strong. We spent the week fixing each other’s sashes, running to Trader Joe’s right before closing and gossiping in our hotel room before bed.
She was fully rooting for this Boston guy. “The New England vibe seems cozy,” she said, smiling. “You guys could be a Dunkin commercial and cater lobster rolls at your wedding.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t want to go out with me?” she teased. “I’m literally from his state.”
Friday finally rolled around. I even did the thing where I tried five versions of the same outfit and put extra time into curling my hair that morning. That afternoon, he texted me.
“You’re going to kill me,” he said. “But my friend just offered me an open ticket to the Masters Tournament, and I’m catching a flight in two hours.”
Wait what?
I stared at the text again and blinked. The Masters? Out of all the potential excuses, this was both legendary and hilarious. It’s not every day that your almost-date gets whisked away to walk the same greens as Tiger Woods.
I mean, how could I be mad? Honestly, I would’ve packed my bags and sprinted to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport faster than you could say “Rory McIlroy.” (Plus, it makes for a great story for The Post.)
To his credit, he apologized and said he actually felt bad. I couldn’t be mad, just mildly inconvenienced. I get it: when Augusta calls, you drop everything and pick up. Personally, I’m a sucker for a man with a good swing and a heartfelt apology, so I would consider letting him know when I’m in D.C. next.
Miss Massachusetts, on the other hand, was less forgiving.
“I warned you about Boston men,” she said, rolling her eyes and sighing. “He ditched you to watch old men in polos swing at things. He’s not even playing golf, he’s watching it.”
So there I was in D.C., officially ghosted for the Masters.
Nonetheless, I made alternate plans for my Friday night, finished the week strong and boarded my flight back to Detroit.
On the plane, I gazed dramatically out the window, wearing my noise-cancelling headphones, as one does after a minor romantic inconvenience in our nation’s capital.
Then, of course, the person next to me turned on the Masters. Okay, I’ll admit the sudden-death playoff was entertaining. But not entertaining enough to interrupt my peaceful flight home, where the last thing I wanted to think about was golf.
When I got back to campus, my friends wanted to hear the story and had lots of opinions.
“Mallory, it’s the Masters! He had no choice,” my friend, who works in the sports section of The Post, said, nearly falling out of his chair. “Honestly, I would’ve been more mad if he hadn’t gone. He’s totally in the right, trust me.”
I smiled and rolled my eyes. He made a fair point: you don’t say no to the Masters.
Other friends weren’t so defensive.
“He had his chance to be ‘Goodwill Hunting’ and’ ‘go see about a girl.’ Instead, he went to see about the Masters,” my other friend said. “Classic fumble.”
So maybe Boston men don’t go “see about a girl.” Sometimes, they go see about the Masters.
Matt Damon has led me astray.
Here’s the other thing: I golf. I grew up spending summers on the driving range with my family and chipping foam balls in my backyard. Summers meant Arnold Palmers in the fridge, my dad yelling at me to stop moving my head so much and constant reminders to “use more strength in your hips.”
Golf is the Waligora family pastime. I even inherited my grandfather’s clubs – he was the best golfer I knew. When 5 p.m. hits on a summer day, we clock out and head outside to chip.
While my driving is mediocre at best (embarrassing and chaotic most of the time,) I’m a precise putter and have cute outfits, and that’s all that really matters in my opinion.
When I arrived back in Michigan, instead of letting me wallow in post-cancellation bitterness, my two friends picked me up and drove me to the driving range – partly because OU gives out free buckets during finals week, partly because it was the first real day of spring after months of dreadful Michigan winter and partly in irony due to me being ditched for golf.
“Okay, let’s make this more entertaining than the Masters,” my friend said, raising her driver up in the air.
Somewhere between hitting the grass more often than the ball and venting about finals week, I realized something weirdly full-circle about that afternoon. No, I didn’t get my Georgetown date, but I did get something arguably better: an afternoon with friends who know how to cheer me up, a bucket of golf balls, a few solid swings and a great story to tell.
And maybe that’s the real story here: sometimes the best dates are the ones that fall through – and when your friends show up to show you a good time, instead of sulking about your almost-date who ditched you for the Masters, you tee up.
