a quick 18

We all know that a quick 18 doesn't exist. Especially those of us who are married to lovers of the game.
He comes bounding into the house, like a great big puppy, his gangly legs taking three stairs at a time. He's whipping off his dress pants as he breathlessly informs me he's going for a "quick 18". He's so hyper, he whips children up off the ground & throws them onto our bed & tickles till i'm sure someone is going to wet their pants (i just hope it's a child & not my golf fanatic husband).
He grabs me in a bear hug - he who only 2 hours earlier was nearly motionless staring at his computer screen, glassy eyed in his office - and kisses me on the lips, hard.
In seconds he has changed into his appropriate golf garb and is bounding down the stairs, fairly running for the door.
i feel a slight niggle of jealousy. How can this game - & the promise of 4 hours of sunshine with a buddy make his mood so hilariously jovial?
i push the feelings aside, smile & say, "Have fun!"
After all, it's only a quick 18... & hopefully when he gets home, my playful pup will still have some of that zip in his step.