I have a friend who is an eye‑catcher. Men take third looks at her. Recently divorced, she says she hates men and wants to put her life back together. Without a man. Yet as a human being, she needs companionship. Loves to play golf after work but can’t find a partner. Quite a conundrum.

Is she a lousy player? Definitely not but most women she knows are rich Harriet Housewife types who putt putt when hubby''s working. This leaves lecherous husbands or prowling single men. Oh, she only wants company. On the surface, a single man may seem perfect but she just left a loser. How can she find space when every man she meets wants a hook-up, not a golf partner? She admits she doesn’t really hate men but doesn’t want any commitments. Hoping to be helpful, I suggest she try on this scenario:

As a lone woman tees off she feels a tap on her shoulder. "Excuse me," the tapper says.

She looks up to the male voice. Attractive. Not Johnny Depp but not dog food material, either. 

"Alone?"

One point taken away for the dumb question.  If she''s not alone, she''s playing with ants. "Yes," she answers patiently.

"I was going to ask if I could play through but instead, would you join me?"

Polite. Likely loves his mother. Won’t stand on street corners offering candy to kids.

They exchange names and talk about the weather. After a few holes, conversation has progressed to the high cost of good clubs and how he plays the game with his mother every Sunday. She thinks this might be her golf partner.

He readies to tee off on the tenth hole and she chooses to engage in more chitchat. "What do you do for a living?" Not personal. She can''t tell if he graduated cum laude from Yale but he seems intelligent. She bets he can spell his accountant’s name.
 

He hesitates, hits the ball, waits for it to land. His reply, "I''m a rectal surgeon."

Not good, she thinks. Not at all good. Granted, he hasn''t made any advances. Has impeccable manners. So he’s a rectal surgeon. They are a necessary part of society, right? What would the world do without them? Rear ends would cry the blues, maybe the black and blues.

But what could she and he talk about? How would she greet him at the end of a work day? "Anything exciting at the office today?" Probably not. Or, "My boss is a real butthole." Even talking golf would be difficult. "Are we on the ninth or tenth hole now?" Certainly couldn''t make any toasts. "Bottoms up" was no longer appropriate.

They finally finish their game, mostly in silence now, and walk to the parking lot where their cars happen to be next to each other. He asks, "Have a drink with me?”

She stutters. Her words run together faster than a monkey on speed goes from tree to tree. "I don''t drink. My Uncle Clancey died in a vat of beer at a brewery in Dublin when I was sex ... I mean, six. Traumatic! So many bubbles." Deep breath. "I get hives and listen to Lawrence Welk.” She scratches. "Bye." Jumping in her car, still scratching, she speeds away….

A real dilemma for my friend. I say, considering her limited options, she might want to succumb to the charms of someone like a polite, decent-looking rectal surgeon.

She gives me a dirty look and spits out, "No!"

Bottom line ... all she really needs is a hole in one.