My Turn


It was my turn to be the subject of ridicule last week. We all take turns. There is not a set schedule because my circle of friends are opportunists. For instance, if you try to get away with wearing a stupid-looking hat out one night, well then it is your turn. That is how it works. 

A group of us were playing golf at Wild Dunes in Charleston, South Carolina on Memorial Day weekend. We were at the turn house and I asked the lady what sandwiches they had. She said they had chicken salad, but when asked told me there were grapes in it, which I hate. Then she said they had tuna salad. It was very hot and I was very hungry so I really would have eaten anything. I had to ask, however, if there were red onions in the tuna because there usually are. I cannot eat red onions because I am allergic to them. I can eat them cooked or pickled, but not raw. The snack lady said she thought there were “regular” onions in the tuna. I am not sure what constitutes a “regular” onion, but I could no longer delve into the ingredients of the various salads at the Wild Dunes turn house and ordered the tuna. 

My turn came when I was halfway finished with the sandwich and I finally noticed a little red in the tuna salad. My friends were still at the window ordering when I emphatically interrupted them so I could tell the woman that the “regular” onions in the tuna salad were in fact of the “red” variety. Then, like a fool, I dramatically tossed the remainder of the poison sandwich into the trashcan and went back to my golf cart. 

As soon as I sat down in the cart I knew I was dead. I was not at risk of dying from eating the red onions, but maybe I was going to wish that I had after the abuse I was about to experience. My buddies are like piranhas reacting to a single drop of blood. If it was one of these other idiots who had done something stupid, I hope you understand that I would have attacked just as hard. We all take a turn and I knew it was mine when my buddy quit ordering lunch for a second and turned around to look at me.

“You just don’t like red onions, that is why you say you are ‘allergic,’ right?”

The first mistake I made was putting a little emphasis behind the tuna-toss into the garbage. The second mistake I made was trying to actually defend my allergy to this ass. I should have just said, “Yes, I do not like red onions” and moved on with the day. Instead, I said, “No, I am really allergic to red onions,” like this guy would respond, “Oh, that is interesting. So sorry for your predicament.” 

He lobbed his second missile at me: “Are you in any danger because of the red onion? Do we need to call a doctor?” This was not genuine concern. He tossed me this softball because he knew he had the upper hand and there was nothing I could say. I am allergic to red onions, but regardless, to him, I was full of shit. 

“No, I am not going to die, but I will be experiencing some slight discomfort!” I did not really say this, but here is where I realized it was my turn and there was nothing I could do. I realized in this moment that there is no way to justify an allergy. In fact, the only reaction to the red onions that they would have accepted is if I dropped dead and even then they would have posthumously made fun of the fact that I was killed by a vegetable. 

For the next nine holes I decided I was going to try and make a joke out of the red onion thing, but nothing worked. I tried to blame missing putts on the red onion and I tried to make fun of myself for throwing the sandwich the way I did, but the effort was futile. Every hole my buddies were saying things like, “Oh, I hate bananas, maybe I am allergic to them?” And, “I think I am allergic to that shot.” There was nothing I could say or do because it was my turn. 

I knew that all I had to do was wait it out, take the hit and then my turn would eventually be over. Your turn can last for years, however. Yesterday, these same fools texted me a picture they took of me driving because it really bugs them how closely I sit to the steering wheel. I am really hosed on this one. I think they are right but I cannot move my seat back because then they will think that they made me do it. I cannot let them win so I am going to move my car seat back an inch every few month so they won’t notice. The best way to keep a secret from these dummies is to write it down because none of them read. 

Maybe an example of someone else’s turn will help you understand what I am talking about. On the same trip, my buddy’s wife had bought him a new collard shirt. We wereimage going out for the evening and he decided to proudly display his new look. It was your normal style collared shirt that had thick dark blue and green stripes. Nothing really absurd. Until my other buddy who has young nephews noticed that his shirt looked like the one that the guy from the children’s TV show Blues Clues wears. Well, this poor guy and his wife who bought the shirt only got about 35 seconds to enjoy him wearing it before it was ruined. He could not change for the same reason I cannot move my car seat back, so he had to suffer all night. I would bet that when he got home, that Blues Clues shirt went right into the garbage.

These are all pretty light examples of what a “turn” is. Some turns are really cold-ass blooded and I almost feel remorseful about them. Almost. The real point of this post is to explain to you how happy and lucky I feel that I even get a turn. This circle of friends is not going to sit around a campfire and talk about how much we love each other. We talk shit instead. I need people like this in my life so I can tell when I am acting like a fool. I need someone to be a check on the baloney. But do not get me wrong, my cheeks hurt from all the laughing I did over Memorial Day weekend. I am so thankful for moments like these. And yeah, it stinks when you are the target, but that is all a part of the game. 

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