On Sundays I watch golf with my husband.
(Explanation: On Sundays, I sit by my husband and read a book while he watches golf. Every few minutes he’ll say, “Watch this replay. This putt is incredible.” I’ll dutifully put down my book and make the appropriate noises of awe, such as “Wow!” or “That’s amazing.” Then I return to my book until the next spectacular shot happens.)
During one of my brief glimpses of the Golf Channel, I watched the pro golfer huddling with his caddy. They discussed wind direction, turf softness, angles, hills and how they’d spend the $1 million purse if the pro got his swing just right.
I had an epiphany. I needed a caddy.
Traditionally, a caddy’s job is to offer good advice, provide moral support, carry heavy stuff the golfer doesn’t want to pack around and understands the consequences of every club selection or course obstacle. Exactly what I need!
A personal caddy is a great idea on so many levels. I’m notoriously reluctant when it comes to making decisions, but a caddy could talk me through the pros and cons of each restaurant or movie choice, allowing me to choose what’s for dinner in record time (less than an hour).
At the grocery store, we could hunker down in the produce aisle and talk about what fruits and/or vegetables I will eat before they turn into a massive puddle of brownish gloop in my refrigerator. This person could say things like, “Are you sure a chocolate Dunford donut is the best choice right now?” And he would not judge me when I throw a dozen donuts in my cart.
My caddy could tell me when I have a booger in my nose, if I need a breath mint, warn me if I have spinach stuck in my teeth, remind me of peoples’ names, determine which road to take for the fastest trip to TJ Maxx and carry my purse—because I hate carrying purses.
When I’m in uncomfortable social situations (i.e. every day), my caddy could help me avoid awkward conversations or inadvertent insults by reading my mind and quickly asking, “Are you sure you want to say that?” And when I’m standing alone at a conference or birthday party, my caddy wouldn’t leave my side, making it look like I have at least one friend.
While shopping for jeans or swimming suits, my caddy would give me a kind, yet insightful, opinion of each article of clothing, carefully avoiding phrases like “too small,” “how ‘bout a bigger size” or “maybe swimwear just isn’t your thing.”
My caddy would also serve as a life coach. He would be a walking inspirational quote book, whispering encouraging words in my ear like, “You’ve got this,” or “You’re awesome.”
If I’m too tired (lazy) to make dinner, my caddy would jump into action and order a pizza or grill up some fresh salmon. He’d tell me to sit back, enjoy a Coke, read a book and he’ll let me know when dinner’s ready. And then he’d do the dishes.
Then I had a second epiphany; I already have a caddy. It’s my husband. And it’s his job to help me avoid hazards, keep my foot out of my mouth, offer encouragement and advice—and he even holds my purse when I’m trying on clothes.
In return, I watch golf with him on Sundays. I think I get the better end of that deal.