"My plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose." (Clueless)
The Boy had an epiphany a couple of months ago. We were making a list of things we wanted to do together. Things like "watch each of our favorite movies" and "take a trip to Traverse City." Nice things. Happy things. Easy-to-cross-off-the-ever-growing-list things. Then he started talking about getting physical. Like, as in exercise. We both know I don't do exercise. So when he said "baby, let's learn how to play tennis" I reminded him of that.
He said it'd be fun. He said it'd be good for us. He said it'd be good for our relationship. We'd be learning something. Together.
Two months and two shiny new rackets (which, to his credit, he bought--that's how excited he is. He's like a puppy. Play! Play! Play!) later, we made our way to my apartment's elevated court. We took our positions across from each other. He smiled sweetly. "You ready, honey?" I nodded.
Clunk. Clunk. Wham!
In slow motion I watched as the ball went from his racket into the area below my boob. I could feel the welt immediately coming. John made a sound like he was the one who'd just been wounded. I didn't know whether he was feeling sympathy pains or just plain guilty, but I didn't care. I gave him a look as he made his way to my side of the net. "Real good for our relationship, hon. Are you trying to make me fall in love with the sport or just fall?!?"
Thus far I was not liking the sport of tennis.
The rest of that first game alternated between John whacking the ball over the fence numerous times and me watching the ball go past me and/or screaming and running from it in fear of more battle wounds. I was not impressed with this game that my love loved so much. So when he talked me into playing it on my one day off this week, I was not such a happy girl.
I stood on my side of the court. He bounced over to his side, clearly happy to be taking in the fresh air and ready to "build our relationship through this great game." (Seriously, he said something like that. I think he watches Dr. Phil and doesn't tell me.)
He bounced the ball and looked at me. "Are you ready, baby?"
"Um....yes. Don't I look ready?"
"No. You're standing there with your hand on your hip. That's not exactly an 'I'm ready' pose."
"It's my 'I'm ready' pose." As I said it he served it to me. I squealed as the ball came at my face and I flailed my racket. By some miracle, it made contact with the ball and flew over to his side. Completely out of bounds, but nowhere near my face. I was not in danger of a bruise.
He bounced the ball and hit it over again. I ducked as it zoomed over my head.
"Sweetie. You need to HUSTLE!"
"I don't hustle. I wait for it to come to me!"
After the words came out of my mouth I realized I was acting like a diva. So the next time he hit it to me I hustled. I sprinted, even. I stretched my arm to hit his serve. And nearly tripped over my own feet. But the ball! It was hit! It went sailing over the fence, but it was hit!
I did a victory dance. Maybe this game isn't so bad. Maybe it will be good for me, good for us. If I could hit that stupid little ball I could do anything! I could do this! And then I served. And he didn't hustle. He completely missed my serve to him.
"Baby, you just need to hustle!"
Ciao, dahling!
~*Krissy*~