I am a bumbling human who somehow ended up in a leadership role. You know, the kind of role where people network, dodge office politics like it’s a game of Minesweeper, and pretend they know how to swim in a sea of social interactions. It’s a miracle I’m not drowning in it all, honestly.

But here we are. I think I stumbled into this position because, in the name of “networking,” my inner extrovert came out like a wild animal at the water cooler, where I unleashed a torrent of awkward small talk that somehow culminated in me being invited to play golf.

Now, for context—I am a non-golfer. I don’t even own a set of clubs. The only thing I’m good at in a golf community is avoiding the water hazards and sand traps… by not participating. But I did choose to live here for the school district. Because priorities.

Fast forward through a series of carefully crafted, yet suspiciously convenient, excuses (Girl Scouts, out of town, hamster graduation—don’t ask), I got cornered by one of these well-meaning but terrifyingly persistent folks: “What?! We live in the same neighborhood! Let’s catch up on the green at seven!”

Wait. The green? Why is “catching up” happening at 7 AM? Who in their right mind is socializing on a golf course beforebreakfast? And more importantly, how do I sell my house and relocate to a neighborhood that doesn’t involve golf before sunrise?

So many questions. So little time.

Anyway, I dropped my kid off at summer camp, which was going smoothly until I got the dreaded text: “On the ninth hole.” I had a panic attack. The ninth hole? What is that? And then, “You can join us, or wait for the next round.”

The next round? Of what? Are we playing golf or participating in a desert survival challenge? It’s hot out. Are they hydrating?

I parked at my house, and in a moment of absolute genius, decided I would cut across the grass, find the magical “ninth hole” placard, make a grand entrance, and then casually strut back home to mentally recover from my life choices. I mean, it’s a golf course. How hard could it be?

I’m sure you can guess what happened next.

As I casually—okay, awkwardly—cut across the grass, I started to get strange looks. Apparently, in the golf community, walking across the grass in sneakers and a tank top is akin to trespassing with a neon sign that says, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I started to wonder if I could flag down one of those golf carts. Like, maybe they could just drive me to the hole. It’d be the most glamorous form of “leaving early” ever. But would they take Apple Pay? I was hot. I needed answers.

Eventually, I flagged down the least intimidating figure I could find—a kid, probably still in high school, carrying clubs and wearing a bib (he looked like he was about to enter a golf-themed reality show). I asked him where the ninth hole was. He looked me over: sweaty, disheveled, in a tank top, shorts, and sneakers… and probably with “HELP” written on my face.

Without missing a beat, he suggested I go to the clubhouse to cool off, and maybe reach out to my “party.” I was so grateful, I almost cried. He even gave me a ride to the clubhouse, like a sweet, sweaty golf Uber driver. The look on his face as I climbed in, though—it was like he’d just realized I wasn’t a lost golfer but an actual disaster in human form.

I finally made it to the clubhouse, where I cooled off with some ice water and tried to salvage what little dignity I had left by texting my group. I may have said I accidentally wandered to the neighboring golf course, and that we’d have to catch up next time.

So, that’s how I ended up in an Uber five minutes from my house, pretending I knew what the heck I was doing. Next time, I’m sticking to the water cooler… where it’s safer for everyone.