I’m a fairly competitive person. (Okay, so that’s an understatement). Athletically inclined? Oh Hell No. While I was growing up out in the sticks, I rode horses and did some running, but I was never involved in actual team sports. I loved volleyball and tennis, but since I was the oldest and my parents both worked, I never participated in anything while I was in school.

At Michigan State, I played on an intramural volleyball team. One of the girls called me after the season ended and asked if they could borrow my shirt for a tournament they were going to play in (um, obviously, I wasn’t asked to actually play in the tournament with them…..). I never saw my shirt again. I think I once subbed in a softball game for my dorm.

After I left State, my athleticism was limited to skiing. Which? You all? I hate the freakin’ cold. Hate. With all my might. Every fiber of my heat-and-humidity-loving being. Cold weather is good for one thing. Cuddling on the couch with hot chocolate (peppermint schnapps optional), a really good book, a soft blanket. Mr. Hot next to me watching football. Because isn’t that what winter is all about?

Then…I had Shortman. Soccer at 4. Baseball at 5. Football at 9. The only reason he didn’t get into hockey? I put my foot down. I was not (no way, uh-uh) going to cart his butt over to the ice (people, ice! doesn’t that say it all?) arena and sit in a freezer for practice and games.

Aaaaannyway. (I know, I’m doing it again) – Mr. Hot and I coached soccer. For the first year or two, it was fine because we actually were more coordinated than the kids. After that, we decided that if we were going to coach, we better be able to play. (Stop. Laughing. Shush!)

I played soccer, competitively, for the next 8 years. Gave it up when we moved here, because I couldn’t find an Over-30 team. There’s a big effin’ difference between playing people against people who are over 30 and playing people who are over 25. Twenty-five year olds? Run like the wind. They grew UP with soccer balls. I never kicked one until I was 32.

I know, you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this. Competition. Athletics. Remember? Snort.

Off and on over the past 16 years, Mr. Hot and I get out and play tennis. He’s really good. Me? Not so much. Yesterday, we decided to go play a couple of sets. The last time I actually beat him? I was 5 months pregnant. It was 1991. I think he had the flu or ebola or something.

Last night? At one point, I actually used the excuse (as the ball went past my racquet for the third or fourth time), “It’s the bifocals. I know I’m keeping my eye on the ball, but when you hit into my bifocal spot, it’s not there!” Apparently, his bifocals don’t have the same ability to change physical laws.

Does it bother my competitive nature that I cannot, for the life of me, beat this man playing tennis? Sure. Do I celebrate each time I manage to hit a drop shot that he just can’t reach? Abso-fuckin-lutely. Do I love that he plays against me like a true opponent? More than anything else. I never want to be given anything that I haven’t earned. In life or in my career.

—- I collapsed to the court after my overhead smash hit directly into the damn net. He said “Hotfessional, here’s your ass.” And handed it to me. On a silver Wimbledon platter. 6-0, 6-1. (I only won that one game because I made him play left-handed.) —-

Trackback URI | Comments RSS