a little competition

I told the people at work that I wanted to exercise.

"Why don't you, then?" they asked.

They don't understand the obstacles that rise in the face of all good intentions -- especially mine -- when the intention doesn't necessarily mesh with preference. My preference is to never move, to live as a small slug in the bottom of a couch, a terminal and internet connection on one arm, and a remote control in the other. What the remote control would hook up to, (VCR, DVD player, TV, radio, CD changer) is anybody's guess. The point would be that there would be very little movement involved. At periodic intervals, the Library of Congress would send me some new trifle for my amusement, and I would take some time off of my sedentary pleasures to actively engage my mind in some piece of literary trash. Then I would get back to the humdrum of screen-staring and brain-melting.

As I say, my character is not inclined towards exercise.

"I hate to jog," I told them, "and I don't like to walk unless I'm going somewhere. I don't like bicycles unless I've got somewhere to go, and I don't own one anyway. I'd rollerblade, but I keep falling down." -- that's another story, remind me to get into it later -- "I don't like aerobics, and I don't like classes in the gym."

"Do sports, then," they advised. "Do you like sports?"

I gave it some thought.

"I like tennis. I used to be," I lied through my teeth, "pretty good at tennis, once upon a time."

And so today, College Kid brought in three tennis rackets, we picked up my fourth, and we trotted over to the tennis courts behind the Fire Department to try our hand at tennis.

I suck.

I suck bad.

"I can't understand it," I whined, (thunk), and smacked a fuzzy yellow ball across the net again to bounce off of the gate. "I used to be good."

With the exception of College Kid, all the others were suffering as well. They weren't very good; one had never picked up a racket, and the other hadn't played in years. College Kid stood at one corner of the court, a hand in his pocket, the racket dangling from the other, and every so often stretched an arm with minimal effort to SMACK! send another drive hurtling across the net at somebody's head.

"We can split up," I decided after a few more rounds, during which I began to develop a positive antipathy for fuzzy yellow things everywhere. (Chickens. I kept thinking about chickens. Legless, headless chickens. Bouncing. Everywhere. Bounce bounce cheep.) "I'll coach Indian Woman, and you two can just play--"

The inappropriateness of me coaching anybody in the art of tennis is absolutely indescribeable.

College Kid shrugged and wandered over to the other court where, despite having the sun blazing in his eyes, he managed to drive Senior Tech Dude into the dirt. Me, I attempted to teach Indian Woman how to hit the fuzzy yellow ball over the net at all.

"You need to tilt your racquet like--"

"You're hitting too gently. If you swing--"

"Wait until it's coming down, then hit it. And if you--"

"You're getting better. Good! Good!"

"No," she said, sternly, "I'm not." Thump.

As it happened, I was on ICQ, (I use it for work only, actually, so don't ask), talking to our Australian partners earlier in the day. College Kid came around the corner and asked me if I wanted to play tennis; I jumped at the chance, and cheerfully told the Australians that I was going to go.

"I'll ping you guys again when I get back," I told them.

An hour passed on the courts before I got back.

"Sorry," I said, when they teased me. "I had to get exercise, you know?"

A half-hour later, College Kid came around the corner again.

"Come on," he said. "We're going to go play ping-pong. Do you want to come?"

"I've got to go," I told the Australians. "I'm goin to go play ping-pong."

The Australians were momentarily silent.

Then:

"Where the fark do you work?"

"In fact, when the fark do you work?"

I was gone for another hour and a half. When I came back, the Australians were eating quiche.

My sister will be so proud; I got at least two and a half hours of exercise today. I've discovered that I'm competitive. I knew that. But I'm competitive at sports, even. I'm anticipating the day when I'll be good enough to roller-blade that I'll be able to play street hockey. Yay!

Go ahead. Tell me I'm nuts.

In other news, thanks, Ourrie. I got the present you sent me at work. Gorgeous card. I put it up on my shelf next to my picture of my mother.

Some guys came by earlier in the year and wanted to take her picture away with her. "Damn, she's a babe," they hooted. "Is she available? Who is she? I'd date her."

...which was just disturbing. Posted by yhirata at December 29, 2000 12:15 AM