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It all started when I told her my membership number. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Kind of like enabling location sharing one day because you’re trying to find yourself in a cloud of dust at Burning Man. One week later, you come out of a coma together and start disabling location sharing because you clearly found each other and she says “forget it”. And now he always knows where you are, like the South Korean government contact search arm. So you start leaving your phone for two hours in a locker at the gym, just to spend some time alone. The Sudsy Lotus—Your favorite neighborhood retreat with its luxurious red carpet and attentive staff. You probably have two months before you start wondering why your body isn’t improving from your two hour 3x / week lifting sessions.
We do our thing at the country club. You play tennis while I play golf. It is harmonious. Then we meet for a blueberry margarita and some potstickers on the patio at dusk. It’s enjoyable, and given the minimum amount of food that is added to the annual dues, I don’t feel like I’m spending real money when we eat there – I have to spend it or I lose it. I also told her about the minimum food. This was mistake no. 2.
He is not a member. She grew up away from the chalky dirt fields and grilled cheeses of country clubs, doing summer jobs at the local pharmacy where she saved up for college by throwing away prescription pills to sell in her public high school bathroom. Haha I’m kidding; she is not a criminal. But she grew up working her ass and I like that because her level of luxury is low.
It was only when we moved to Maine for quarantine that we were introduced to the wonders of paying for things by reciting a member number. Hell, in July we got so regular as the club that they don’t even ask for the number anymore, and that’s even more dangerous. Because then, there is no trace of a transaction; country club life is free until your monthly statement is sent to you and you wonder if a tribe of hungry alcoholics have hacked your account.
He took tennis lessons. Private twice a week, plus the women’s clinic on Fridays. She did her research in New York and found that private tennis lessons cost $ 100 + in the city, so when she learned that the lessons were $ 35 / hour here in Maine, I told her to charge. We dream of one day winning the mixed doubles club championship. We are very far away, but I intend to hit the bombshell serves with the intent of hurting the female opponent, forcing the other team to forfeit. It’s not a noble way to win, but putting your name and photo on the wall of champions is worth some cases of internal bleeding. Enter the ring with the bull, you’ll have horns, Tricia. This is gender equality.
But now she has become comfortable. He has embraced the country club’s invisible and forgettable currency. A new tennis skirt in the pro shop? Throw it on the board. Can of fresh balls? Ding. Caesar chicken wraps for the table? About me, sir. And as the great Gary Gulman once said, they only add up … if they add up. And I added it up.
I considered telling you to slow down your bill. But that doesn’t seem fair, as I’m not even going to cut. Plus, his freedom to enjoy the club is what allows me to play golf without feeling rushed or guilty. I suppose I could get her membership, but it doesn’t make any financial sense as we plan to return to New York in a few weeks. Ugh, a real choice of Sophie.
I don’t have a solution.I will suffer for weeks and develop more and more resentment as I carefully scan the billing statements. By now we have exceeded the minimum of food. This is all real money. Nothing is more fun.
Please help.
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