STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- There are a few precious things in life that
give me pleasure on a regular basis: The sound of my children laughing, a
great book, dinner with friends, my mom's cooking, 80's music, patients
who love their new veneers, a pretty sunset, hugs from my husband, a
sale at Barney's, the Brooklyn Bridge, joking with my sisters, the
beach, listening to my dad's stories, photography, writing.
And
tennis. That's right, tennis, that wonderfully exhausting sport that
guarantees time with my friends twice a week while channeling my inner
Serena and burning off calories from foods I never should've eaten in
the first place.
I am in two morning tennis leagues, which
may sound like a lot, but really isn't. As a stressed-out, working
mom, exercise is not a luxury; it's a necessity. I'm particularly fond
of one group, comprised of 11 lovely and uniquely remarkable Staten
Island moms from varied personal and professional backgrounds. You have
your obstetrician-gynecologist, your attorney, your physical therapist,
your homemaker, your pharmacist, your certified public accountant, your
executive director/co-founder of a Staten Island non-profit, your
restaurant owner, your former microbiologist/public health
administrator, your registered nurse/college professor, and your
dentist/newspaper columnist (yours truly). Indeed it is a privilege to
call them my friends because they all have hearts of gold.
No
other form of exercise could drag me out of bed, into an immodestly
short skirt, and onto a tennis court by 8:30 a.m., especially on
frigidly cold mornings, but I love it. Conversation is easy. We all
share three passions: 1) A drive to be the best mothers we can be; 2) A
need for regular cardio and friendly competition; and 3) An enjoyment of
coffee and egg white omelettes with feta cheese and spinach (hold the
onions but bring some Tobasco, please), a popular selection when we
invariably indulge in our post-tennis, workout-negating breakfasts.
This
morning, eight of us converged upon two courts for 90 minutes of fun.
Doubles, of course, because with our collective 25 children, who has the
energy to play singles? Playing well is hit or miss, no pun intended,
and today was my lucky day. My lovely partner and I killed both sets,
6-1, 6-0. As the foursome ritually shook hands at the net after the
final set and before we all proceeded to the diner for breakfast,
someone lovingly joked, "Wow, Gracelyn, great playing. Big change from
that first time we played together, remember?"
OK, deep breath. Smile and take a sip of your Dasani. Did she really have to bring THAT up?
I'm
kidding, of course, but bristled momentarily at the mere mention of one
of the most humiliating days of my life. Five summers ago, when I
decided I wasn't getting any younger -- or fitter -- in my mostly
sedentary lifestyle, I resolved to take up tennis. After all, how many
calories did I burn throughout the day, sitting on a rolling stool,
drilling teeth? Not much.
Factor in that immediately afterward, I
proceed to my car and sit some more, driving my kids to sports, Girl
Scouts and piano, after which I further sit to eat dinner and help with
homework. My once decent figure had essentially been destroyed by two
pregnancies -- one with good-sized twins -- and my once fast metabolism
had screeched to a halt and morphed me to a doughy, unhealthy, not-size
4. ACK. But I digress.
Countless hours of private lessons and
group clinics under my belt, the day of my tennis debut arrived. It was a
warm summer day in 2007 and to call it unforgettable is an
understatement. Clad in cute tennis whites from Paragon, I admit I was
nervous. My backhand insecurities were palpable and seemingly my nervous
heartbeat audible.
As welcomingly polite as everyone was, I
wanted to make a good first impression and demonstrate to my new,
ridiculously beautiful and athletic tennis friends I'd be a good
addition to their league. At best, I wanted to wow. At very least, I
didn't want to make a fool of myself. Unfortunately, things didn't go
as planned.
The first few games were a blur, but I
clearly remember double-faulting often and missing some easy lobs which
came at me so slowly they were practically going backward. Initial
performance? Lackluster! Surely I was better than how I was playing.
Growing
frustrated and generally uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for
me, which they probably were, I re-grouped and stepped up my game a
little. I took a deep breath and focused, using visualization techniques
and saying a few Hail Marys. Applying everything I'd ever learned in
every tennis lesson I'd ever taken, I let 'er rip and -- whammo! --
things started looking up.
Soon it was 40-15, us, and then 5-3
games, us, then even a set victory. It worked! Perhaps I wasn't the
worst tennis player they'd ever had the misfortune of inviting to their
league! Tennis ego inflated at this point, I played the net for the
second set.
I moved easily to and fro, starting to feel all my
practice was paying off. I made a note to myself to give my three
daughters a re-vamped "all your dreams are possible if you work hard for
it" Mommy speech when I got home. Look at me, I thought, returning
slices with ease, getting some good returns in, not disappointing my
partner. I was on Cloud Nine.
That is, until what I call "my initiation" happened.
We
were winning 3-1 and it was our service, 30-15. Nice volley ensued and
everyone was having a great game. But then, all of a sudden, a torpedo
shot came at me with such velocity and such a brilliant angle -- a shot
clearly I was too inexperienced and perhaps too out of shape to ever
get -- that it looked impossible to return. But, of course, I went for
it anyway.
I was kind of caught off-guard, stupidly mentally
admiring how well I was playing thus far. I snapped my brain back to
attention and at top speed, I raced to the right from the midline,
hyper-extending my forehand to make contact and VOILA! I lost my
balance on the gravelly, Har-Tru court ... and slid fast and furious,
squarely into the fence. Oh, the humanity!
I wanted to die,
certainly from embarrassment more than my injuries, which were minor.
The next few seconds found me just lying there, on the tennis court,
knees scraped, shoulder bruised, and my tennis whites not so white. I'm
not sure if I lost consciousness or not, but I found out first-hand what
truly being "winded" was.
For the life of me I couldn't catch my
breath long enough, even for a moment, to answer the gasps of disbelief
of what had just occurred from all who witnessed my tennis wipe-out of
epic proportions. Weirdly, it occurred to me at that moment that maybe
tennis wasn't my sport.
Everyone quickly hovered over me to make
sure I was still alive. I was. I tried desperately to regain my
composure. I couldn't find my racquet. Or my dignity.
Then the
questions started from what seemed like far-away voices. There were
lots of "Are you OK?" and "Oh my God, Gracelyn, what happened?" I also
seemed to recall a few "Are you hurt?" and "Good God, woman!" Then there
were, "Did you break anything?" "Should I run and get ice?" and my
personal favorite, from my fellow-dentist tennis friend, "Is your
disability insurance premium paid up?"
They picked me up and
dusted me off. I walked it off for the next few minutes, checking to see
if I had fractured any bones, pulled any muscles. I hadn't. Just a
beat-up ego.
I forced a smile on my face enough to finish the
second set, which we lost, and went straight home. I took a shower, iced
my knee, Neosporined my cuts, and went to work. What a morning. Who
would ever think doing difficult wisdom teeth extractions later that day
and some fillings on some uncooperative pediatric patients would be the
highlights of any day?
But they were.
