“My plastic surgeon says I can’t do any activities where balls fly at my nose.”

 

For the last month I’ve been taking tennis lessons. I came into it with absolutely no knowledge other than step one: hit ball. I had always wanted to learn, so when Jen and I found out the town was offering beginner adult lessons we signed up.

There’s nine of us in the class. Our instructor is a college student who learned the hard way that if he makes fun of us, Jen and I will throw it right back. Last week we actually made him blush asking him if he got a haircut for his girrrrl friend.

Anyway.

Each class begins the same, practicing “Up’s” and “Down’s”. Basically, bouncing the ball up on the racket, or bouncing it down on the ground. The first time we did this I burst out laughing. Any one driving by would have seen nine grown adults practicing bouncing a ball. The image still cracks me up.

As the month went on, we started to get pretty good. Last night we played doubles and Jen and I kicked some major ass. It helps that on the days we don’t have lessons, we’ve been playing on our own. Basically five days a week for the last month has included at least one hour of tennis. (I’m starting to worry that my right arm is going to be much stronger than my left.) The upside? Better skills, plus the loss of another few pounds!

The downside? Other tennis players.

Usually every time we’ve played outside of class we’ve been next to another team. And at least 90% of the time, these teams are assholes.

Yup, I said it. Assholes. I don’t know if it’s because tennis is traditionally a sport of the wealthy, but these people take themselves waaaay too seriously.

Take the team we encountered in our very early days of learning. OK, so the balls didn’t always land in our court. But is that reason enough to chuck them back at us with an eye roll?

Or the team where one looked completely bored and the other would swear in a foreign language. They would also watch us and snicker if a shot didn’t go completely as planned.

And how about the team that decided to play on the court next to us during lessons (even though there is a clearly marked sign that says town activities take precedent), who would yell “that’s ours!” all angry-like if one of their balls rolled over towards us.

Like the nine of us, who have two huge baskets full of balls, even want your stupid little stray ball. Pull down your socks and get the hell over yourself. Assholes.

My grandfather has been playing tennis for more than 60 years. He’s not an asshole.

So I ask you all today, dear readers, that if you’re a tennis player…

…don’t be an asshole.

Completely unrelated, but I since I started with Clueless, I thought it was important to tell you that this used to hang on the back of my door. Yes it did. And it wasn’t a poster. It was a cardboard replica of a mirror and it looked like the girls were looking in it. Just wanted to remind you how cool I was. Am. Was.