I'm not gonna lie – part of the
reason my husband and I decided to uproot our family southbound was
so that the kids could be outside more (that's code for “we could
be outside more playing tennis!”). We're considerate parents like
that.
None of us envisioned that when the
chance to move finally came, it would be piecemeal. We wouldn't be
together, not right away. But even then, I thought it'd be a couple weeks only,
not that long. Long enough for a working mom to take a breather from
the family that always needed something, am I right?
Haha. No. Of course not. Nearly two months
ago now, I packed up my car, interviewed a real estate agent with my
husband, said goodbye to my distracted children as they watched
Chuggington (and then again during Octonauts), surrendered my house keys to my very best friend in
life, told him I'd see him soon, and drove to Florida. I would say
half of that drive on the first day was done pretty artfully,
considering my eyes were just randomly filling with tears. I think my
husband and I always figured that when we finally made it to
perpetually sunny skies, we would do it together. It just wasn't the
same to get there without him, or them.
Regardless, as soon after I arrived here, life went on for everyone else. The French
Open came and went, and watching on TV as Serena won it from her knees was
craaaazy fun and even before nude Stan Wawrinka came along, watching
him play solidly throughout the tournament was kind of a tennis
turn-on. (I can't be the only one who thought Nadal's injury in last
year's Australian Open final was the ONLY reason he won. Well, I sit
corrected.) But still, something was missing. Naturally, it was my
tennis spirit-twin who knew it.
“Why don't you go out to the courts
and play some tennis?” my husband nagged me over the phone (because
that's how men roll).
“OK, maybe after work one day.”
Which I of course didn't do. In
retrospect, a lot can be said for my frame of mind when you realize
that I preferred leaving my new job and going back to my dark room at the local Travelodge and watching Penny freakin' Dreadful on three
Showtime channels throughout the night rather to going to the nearby
tennis courts. (Also watched 'Boyhood' at least three different time. Do you understand now?)
An even better commentary on my
relationship with my racquets at this time, which had now been
untouched for two months – the day I finally went over to the
tennis courts, I got out of my car and walked over to the office to
find out about the leagues in the area. A man yells over at me, “We
need a fourth!” And I say – wait for it – “Oh, I can't right
now!”
Yes, of course I could have. It was
Saturday for heaven's sake. In theory, the reason I went to those
courts was to play tennis. Someone offered to play tennis, and I said
no.
Yeah. Exactly.
The only thing that broke me of
whatever the hell this was was my spirit-twin, as usual. He told me
he was signing up for a tournament for one last go-round with his
partner. And finally, it hit me: If he can still want tennis, even
with two small children hanging around his neck at all hours and the
stresses of moving and selling a house constantly clawing at his
sanity, then what the what was my problem?
And if you wanna hear something
hilarious, it was that guy I turned down for tennis who still got me
back into it. I've been playing with his Saturday morning group
(horribly, but that's what you get for not playing for two months –
there ARE NO SHORTCUTS) and doing my backboard penance for about
three weeks now. Maybe I thought I would punish myself for not having
what I really want right now by depriving myself of the other
constant in my life for nearly 14 years. Or of the other habit of
mine that's been with me forever – writing. Well, I guess my
punishment's over. It's about time for some Attitude to start flowing
around here again. The good-bad kind. Not the bad-bad kind. You understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment