I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez Page A

shoes.”
    In every relationship I’ve been in, when it comes to golf, there’s always that terrible moment of truth. You have to brace yourself for this question: “What do you guys talk about out there on that golf course for five hours?”
    I don’t want to lie. I want to tell the truth. I want to say, “Well, pussy, mainly.”
    But that would only fuel their hatred of golf. In some cases, God forbid, it might motivate them to take up the sport so that they could
play with us.
When my ex-wife threatened to take up golf, I told a friend that I would cut off my arms so I wouldn’t have to play.
    The truth is, we don’t really talk about pussy that much. When we play golf, we talk about . . .
    Let me think.
    Actually, we don’t talk. We really don’t. That’s another reason we don’t want to play with women: We don’t want to talk when we play golf. We don’t want to talk at all. We just want to play. In silence. Without thinking about what to say, or what we think, or worst of all, what we
feel
. The hell with that. This is the hardest thing for women to understand. When I go out with three guys to play golf, not only don’t we talk very much; ninety percent of the time we’re not even together. We’re off on our own, hitting our shots, alone, by ourselves, not thinking about anything but golf. My definition of bliss.
    Even my young, understanding, very compatible girlfriend can’t stand that I play golf. Usually I sneak out of the house when she’s still asleep. By the time I get back, she’s just getting up and we’re ready to begin our day. But one morning, I took a shower, slipped into my golf clothes, and slowly, quietly, on tiptoes, started to head out the door. I heard her rustling in bed. I turned back and saw her sitting up, her eyes wide-open.
    â€œHey,” I whispered. “I’m going out.”
    She took a moment to look me over. Finally, it registered that I had on my golf clothes. She blew out a funnel of air that hit me like a tornado and roared like an oncoming train,
“Nooo!”
    My head snapped back from the force of her scream. “I’m just . . . playing golf. . . . I’ll be back in a few hours—”
    â€œNooooo!”
    I can’t think of one thing that would cause me to freak out the way my girlfriend does over my playing golf. Oh, I’ve had reasons to go nuts. But I’ve been cool. I’ve held back. Call it my new after-fifty attitude. For argument’s sake, here’s a reason that might’ve have caused other people concern. Put up a red flag, so to speak.
    One night when we were out—after we’d been dating awhile and things started heating up—she said that if our relationship was to go any further, I would have to share her affections. She reached into her purse and an adorable Chihuahua puppy poked her head out. My girlfriend nuzzled the dog. The dog squealed and barked happily and licked her face. I had to admit the dog was pretty damn cute. My girlfriend lifted the dog all the way out. The dog had on a pink dress.
    â€œI hope the dog’s a girl,” I said.
    â€œOf course. Well? What do you think?”
    â€œCute,” I said.
    â€œHold her.”
    â€œNo, that’s okay—”
    She pressed the dog into my arms. The puppy squirmed for a couple of seconds, then snuggled against my chest, got comfortable, and looked up at me with big round adoring eyes. I caressed her little head gently, and then, I swear, the dog smiled.
    â€œHold up. Did she just smile at me?”
    â€œYes! That’s the test. You passed. She likes you.” Then she smiled, not so much out of happiness but from relief. “Our little family. This is going to work.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I like dogs. I’ve had dogs my whole life, starting when I was a kid. They mostly stayed outside,