Puffing with pride when someone calls me “athletic”

Not original: Crushing on Rafa
Not original: Crushing on Rafa

Yesterday evening, on my weekly Saturday date with Hubby, I tried to lay out my vision for our future, one that includes oodles of not-sitting-around-ness.

When I peered into my crystal ball, I said, I saw beaucoup golf and tennis.

So as not to alarm him, I left out one key part of this not-sitting-around-ness plan – traveling, traveling and more traveling. I did this for two reasons: 1) Although Hubby always enjoys himself to pieces when we jaunt off to here, there and everywhere, he’s invariably initially reluctant. And 2) While globe-trotting is not in our immediate future, court time is. As in at 11 a.m. today, a mere few hours from now.

This year, I’ve watched more of the U.S. Open than ever; I’ve been welded -welded! – to the telly. And all this 2013 couch action has yielded an unspeakably important breakthrough for Momover Lady.

(Sidebar: Is it actually considered gauche to say “couch” instead of “sofa”? I’m guessing the answer to that query is yes, given that I virtually never see the word “couch” in my beloved Arch Digest and Coastal Living magazines. What? You don’t read Coastal Living? OMG, I’m addicted. It’s been weeks since I read it, but I’m still swooning over the great piece in the current issue about India Hicks lovingly restoring, post-hurricane, her family’s insansely chic island home. In my next life, I’d like to come back as India Hicks…)

Okay, back to that breakthrough. Wait for it…


C’est vrai. At long last, I know the difference between game, set and match.

You have no idea how incredible this is. Years ago, when it was totally the thing for beauty companies like Kiehl’s and Elizabeth Arden to take editors to the U.S. Open, I’d sit there in those killah corporate boxes blissfully clueless.

I actually saw Andre Agassi win the entire she-bang and I didn’t understand how he got there, point-wise.

I know, I know; you’re gasping at my stupidity. Hey, at least I “own” it. Scoring involves numbers. Numbers are the devil to me. Need proof? In Senior Algebra, I once flunked the same test seven times in a row. My professor was literally begging me to pass. I remember it as if it were yesterday. “Dana,” he pleaded. “I’m not even bothering to switch the questions around anymore. I’m giving you exactly the same test I gave you yesterday – the very one I gave you all the answers for after you flunked again – and you’re still not passing.”

Can you imagine? But, please, if he’d quizzed me on that month’s issue of Vogue or Bazaar – or asked me pressing questions about the Sex Pistols – I assure you I’d have passed with flying colors.

Patience, please: I’m about to land like a 747 on the core premise of today’s blog post: Athleticism.

So, over a half-pint of Brooklyn Pennant Ale – and because I’m extremely brave about fishing for compliments – I asked Hubby: “Do you think I could ever become half-way decent at playing tennis?”

“I do,” he said, kindly. “You’d have to really work at it, but you have an advantage because you’re naturally athletic.”

My heart soared.

Not that I’m keeping track or anything (kidding; I am totally keeping track) Hubby is now the third person in my life, really in my life, people who actually know me, to tell me they think I’m athletic.

I don’t know why that makes me soooooooo damn happy, but it totally does.

And on that note, I’m gonna go suit up for our tennis match. See, I just called it a match. I know what “match” means now.