|I think this says it all.|
When Jamie my son was 11, he announced he wanted to take up golf [again, it might have been the Wodehouse phase, or maybe it was the Waugh phase], so I joined this sort-of country club for a season [to pay the fees for which I had to teach two summer-course sections of The Family in Literature, a course I loathe].
I tried--the golf thing, I mean. I bought those knit polo shirts. I purchased and wore once a pair of skorts but I couldn't escape the feeling I was wearing a pair of Depends, only on the outside of my clothes.
So then I bought culottes. Oh, and they had this rule that everything had to be pastel. Pastels frighten me, which is why I have rendered the drawing to the right in black and white. I bought golf shoes, which were only marginally better than wearing bowling shoes but that's only because 1233 other people hadn't worn them before me.
I tried. But in the end, the overall effect was: impersonation.
Normally, I like impersonation, and you might say I've made a career of it.
But Golf Mom: that was way too big an impersonation.
Even for me.