I learned early on that if one doesn’t make fun of oneself, somebody else will. So, in that vein, here’s what happened at my tennis match. . . .
First of all, I received a surprise call from my team, the one I never practice with, saying that they needed a player. Apparently, one person had to attend a funeral, one was sick and one just plain flaked out. If I had to find a positive result of this pitiful economy, it would be that I am now available to play tennis at the last minute.
Despite the fact that I haven’t played in a full year, I recently picked up three new skirts at T.J. Maxx ($14 marked down from $50. Who could resist?) After much ado, I chose to wear the bright yellow one. I did not choose wisely.
Mapquest and GPS wanted me to go a back route to the match, so who am I to argue? Unfortunately, I had a bad address, and both failed to get me there. Running late and fearing a forfeit, I whipped the car into a convenience store (it was that or the tattoo parlor across the street), only to be greeted by a bunch of gestures from a homeless-looking man. It seems he thought I was going to run over him, and he wasn’t very happy.
Not wanting to get out, I cracked the window and asked the next person out of the store for directions. He had no teeth and questionable hygene, but, by golly, he could give directions. Although I doubted him for a minute when I swear I saw the very same homeless man walking three miles down the road.
I found the courts and ran to meet my partner for the first time. She was on the phone asking our sick team captain how she would recognize me. I don’t know what she said, but a good answer would have been, “Because she’ll be late and running to the courts.”
Once on the court, I felt at home, except my new skirt had the ball pocket on the right-hand side.
“Whoever designed this skirt put the pocket on the wrong side,” I proclaimed loudly. “I have to switch the racquet to my left hand to put the ball in. Whoever designed this has obviously never played tennis!”
I was quite outraged because, remember, I’d paid $14 for it!
“I just shove mine up in my shorts,” said my opponent, helpfully.
Well, okay, when in Rome …
I shoved the ball in my shorts on the left side of my leg.
“You have to shove them way up there,” she added.
Oookay, I thought, and did as I was told.
My next thoughts were “How do I get it out?” and “This is kind of gross! I’ll just use the right-hand side pocket.”
As the match went on, I realized that the decorative lace of my skirt was in back. Crappy designer? No, I was wearing my skirt backward.
It was around that time that I noticed the bees. Sweat bees. Frankly, I don’t sweat a lot and have never experienced them before, but they were swarming around my skirt, much to my dismay.
“They’re attracted to yellow,” yelled a spectator, “and they STING! It feels just like a regular bee.”
Someone later told me that neither is true, but, not knowing, I wasn’t taking any chances. I briefly thought about yanking the skirt off and tossing it for the bees (which look more like bugs) to chase, but, instead, I decided my best bet was to move and move quickly.
The result? I didn’t miss a shot for the rest of the set, much to opponents’ dismay.
My partner said, “Wow, you can really move fast!”
“I have to move to keep the bees off of me,” I said, which somehow came out in my slowest country Southern drawl, as I’m to want to do when I’m tired or slightly intoxicated, so it sounded more like, “Ah haaaf to mooove if ah wanna keep thah beeezzz off ah me.”
Ultimately, we lost the match. I was sweaty, dirty, sunburned and covered with sweat bees, but after a year without playing, I’d never felt better, poor economy or not. However, if you need some freelance work done…
First of all, I received a surprise call from my team, the one I never practice with, saying that they needed a player. Apparently, one person had to attend a funeral, one was sick and one just plain flaked out. If I had to find a positive result of this pitiful economy, it would be that I am now available to play tennis at the last minute.
Despite the fact that I haven’t played in a full year, I recently picked up three new skirts at T.J. Maxx ($14 marked down from $50. Who could resist?) After much ado, I chose to wear the bright yellow one. I did not choose wisely.
Mapquest and GPS wanted me to go a back route to the match, so who am I to argue? Unfortunately, I had a bad address, and both failed to get me there. Running late and fearing a forfeit, I whipped the car into a convenience store (it was that or the tattoo parlor across the street), only to be greeted by a bunch of gestures from a homeless-looking man. It seems he thought I was going to run over him, and he wasn’t very happy.
Not wanting to get out, I cracked the window and asked the next person out of the store for directions. He had no teeth and questionable hygene, but, by golly, he could give directions. Although I doubted him for a minute when I swear I saw the very same homeless man walking three miles down the road.
I found the courts and ran to meet my partner for the first time. She was on the phone asking our sick team captain how she would recognize me. I don’t know what she said, but a good answer would have been, “Because she’ll be late and running to the courts.”
Once on the court, I felt at home, except my new skirt had the ball pocket on the right-hand side.
“Whoever designed this skirt put the pocket on the wrong side,” I proclaimed loudly. “I have to switch the racquet to my left hand to put the ball in. Whoever designed this has obviously never played tennis!”
I was quite outraged because, remember, I’d paid $14 for it!
“I just shove mine up in my shorts,” said my opponent, helpfully.
Well, okay, when in Rome …
I shoved the ball in my shorts on the left side of my leg.
“You have to shove them way up there,” she added.
Oookay, I thought, and did as I was told.
My next thoughts were “How do I get it out?” and “This is kind of gross! I’ll just use the right-hand side pocket.”
As the match went on, I realized that the decorative lace of my skirt was in back. Crappy designer? No, I was wearing my skirt backward.
It was around that time that I noticed the bees. Sweat bees. Frankly, I don’t sweat a lot and have never experienced them before, but they were swarming around my skirt, much to my dismay.
“They’re attracted to yellow,” yelled a spectator, “and they STING! It feels just like a regular bee.”
Someone later told me that neither is true, but, not knowing, I wasn’t taking any chances. I briefly thought about yanking the skirt off and tossing it for the bees (which look more like bugs) to chase, but, instead, I decided my best bet was to move and move quickly.
The result? I didn’t miss a shot for the rest of the set, much to opponents’ dismay.
My partner said, “Wow, you can really move fast!”
“I have to move to keep the bees off of me,” I said, which somehow came out in my slowest country Southern drawl, as I’m to want to do when I’m tired or slightly intoxicated, so it sounded more like, “Ah haaaf to mooove if ah wanna keep thah beeezzz off ah me.”
Ultimately, we lost the match. I was sweaty, dirty, sunburned and covered with sweat bees, but after a year without playing, I’d never felt better, poor economy or not. However, if you need some freelance work done…
2 comments:
And I do! (I just won't know which topic until tomorrow!) I'm glad you get such great "material" from your adventures and misadventures in life!
Cool! I look forward to it. Yeah, it makes great fodder.
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