Wimble-don't

Staying true to my George Costanza regimen, I played tennis last night with my friend even though I still don't have the results of the xrays on my foot. Remember - I'm going for the complete opposite of what I would normally do. I suspect that if there was some small fracture that last night's activity would certainly have had me howling in pain at some point (and no, I'm not referring to the score or how I looked in shorts).

My tennis friend, Doc, is about 10 years older than I but has the energy of a twelve year old after consuming a 2 pound tin of Pixie Sticks and she regularly kicks my ass on the court. In the past 7 or so years we've been playing I've only beat her once. Her husband, who regularly instructs me to "wax her ass", brought me over a bottle of champagne to celebrate my victory. It is one of my goals this year to beat her again and last night it was close....but no cigar.

On entering the public park court, I noticed everyone started applying sunscreen and lowering their sunglasses. As it was 6:00 pm and well past sun damage time, I and my paranoia automatically assumed it was from the glare of my pasty white legs and arms reflecting the setting sun. We warmed up a little and then it was on like donkey kong! Hold on to your panties Doc, I'm doing the ass-kicking tonight!

We got right into it - this match was not for sissies and it was very close. I did, as one might expect from a woman carrying around 50 extra pounds, experience some difficulties during our match. Aware that no thunderstorms were in the forecast, I observed a loud clapping sound that seemed to coming from my side of the court only. And yes, Matlock, the clapping noise did seem to correspond with Ethel and Lucy swinging wide and low and having no harnessing device engaged, save this pathetic little 18 hour wonder that usually surrenders after 20 minutes. Either that or it was my thighs whose close relationship haven't allowed my ankles to say hello to each other since 4th grade. Oh good Lord, I was my own cheering section!

I must've been quite the sight having to constantly adjust my bra and pull my shirt out from getting stuck in it all night long. Wonder bra, indeed - it lets the girls go completely AWOL while hoovering at my sweaty shirt. I looked like some spastic escapee chimp from a Madonna video (and don't you always feel the need for a shot of penicillin just even reading her name?).

Nature doesn't always play against me. I have a trick that usually works pretty well when exerting myself in this fashion. I'm one of the lucky few whose blood vessels or capillaries or some other blood delivery system is so close to my skin's surface that my face turns the color of eggplant. This usually gets my opponents to back off a little; so afraid are they of me stroking out or having a heart attack and that's when I move in for the kill. If I can't win on skill then I will certainly take the lower road of exploiting my opponent's weakness/concern for my health. However, Doc being a doctor and regular tennis buddy is onto this and in fact seemed to actually punch the gas peddle that much harder. Some humanitarian, huh? In a futile attempt to get her to back off, I started reciting her oath back at her..."first, do no harm". No luck. She beat me.

I exited the court to thunderous applause - my own still, only this time it sounded like it was underwater. Rematch pending.

Have a great weekend!