The Sweaty Chimmney Sweep

This time last year, I was at the U.S. Open. It was really fun, if crowded and exhausting. Mostly, I really liked experiencing how the crowd changed loyalties and would get behind various players based on the game itself.  We also sat right behind Commissioner Burrell from the Wire (we didn’t talk to him, but instead grinned like fools the entire time).

Really, I would like to be able to play tennis. I consider myself an athletic and coordinated person, but it sure doesn’t come easy.  I take it as a victory when the balls land anywhere in the court. And the black tape on my racket handle comes off on my hand, and when I wipe all my flyaway hairs off my face, I leave a black streak. So, by the end of the “game” I look like a sweaty  chimney sweep.

In the interest of crazy unrealistic goals, I do hereby declare that one day – one day – I will beat my boyfriend at tennis. Are you laughing yet? I am – he even had lessons growing up and I currently duck (while squealing) from his ace-like serves. But you have to start somewhere. For now I look as clearly glamorous as this woman.

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