She's Writing a Novel

The Russian lover has been teaching me to play tennis this summer.

Before we started, I had a vision of myself learning to play tennis. It was not unlike a vision of myself being attacked by a swarm of bees. Racket in hand, swinging wildly at the air, fending off things flying at my head. Given my history of athletic reticence, this was a realistic expectation.

It went better than that, but not by much. Apparently somewhere on the long list of his life accomplishments, talents, and miscellania of things he can do better than most people, is the fact that the Russian lover was a world-ranked amateur tennis player in his teens. Oh excellent, I thought. Either I have just found myself the kind of tennis coach I could never afford, or I have just provided my boyfriend with a whole new demonstration of fail.

But tennis is a prerequisite in any social climber's course of study, and I knew I should learn it eventually. And besides, I was excited to learn a sport that was NOT a team sport. More like a dual than anything else, I figured tennis was a sport I could actually enjoy. Then I remembered that, like nearly all sports, tennis involves a ball. Coming at you.

Something about a ball on a trajectory for my body drains all thought from my mind, and instinct takes over. Then my only objective is to avoid the ball, avoid the ball...don't try to hit it, might make it angry...

It's so shameful, to be that stereotype of a girl who cringes and ducks and flails. At some point since my childhood, I became The Girl Who is Afraid of the Ball. Instead of demonstrating fierce athletic prowress, I go all damsel in distress. It doesn't make for successful tennis playing.

Slowly, however, I started getting past that mental block. Being forced to concentrate on successfully hitting the ball, I forgot that I'd generally prefer to just avoid it.

And now? Now the ball is my bitch.