Tennis, Anyone?

As part of my intro-to-Woodside package, they gave me one free tennis lesson. Now, even I know one tennis lesson is not enough, so I went ahead and signed up for their eight session, Adult 101, class last month.

I had signed up for the Wednesday morning classes. It turns out that not everyone has my ethic around showing up for classes I've paid for, because that first morning, I was the only student to show up. No complaints on my part!

I've always wanted to learn to play tennis - to the point where I've had an aspirational tennis racquet in my closet for the past two decades. OK, three. 

I wasn't sure if the racquet was still any good, but I dusted it off anyways and brought it with me to the first lesson, where I showed it to the coach. To his credit, he stifled his laughter and actually gave it a once-over. He pronounced it good enough to hit balls with until I decided if I really want to play, then informed me they have (real) racquets at the front desk for check-out as long as I play at the club. Works for me.

I've tried a time or two to play on my own, but quickly gave up in frustration. I never could get the ball to go where I wanted it to, and chase-the-ball is not a fun game if one is not a golden retriever. But that first hour of individual tutelage totally upped my game. He showed me how to step the right way, and how to correctly hold and swing the racquet for forehand and backhand strokes. The difference in my playing ability was immediately apparent. (And they have a great little hopper to use to pick up the fifty-ish balls I hit during the lesson, so I didn't have to play chase-the-ball even once!)

The remainder of the lessons were just as fun. Despite the heat during the Saturday-at-11AM-in-full-August-sun sessions, time flew every time I stepped on the court. I learned something new at every class - how to volley, how to serve, the rules of the game. I was the oldest one there by at least two decades, so was pleased to find I could keep up with the other kids, and that my skills placed me squarely in the middle of the pack. Go, me!

And, to my pleasant surprise, my feet have been up to the demands of the game. I was worried that the pounding would reactivate my plantar fasciitis woes, but so far, so good. (Of course, I'm still at a VERY basic level - this still may not work once I wend my way up to playing actual games. But, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.)

I'm hooked enough to sign up for the Adult 201 classes later this fall. I don't have enough years left in me to get really good at the game, but I am hoping to get good enough to play matches for fun before my assorted aches and pains put me permanently on the sidelines.

And. I'm glad I didn't let the bag of assorted fears and doubts I carry with me stop me from signing up for the classes (it almost did...), because it feels really good to finally have put that aspirational tennis racquet to use. I'm not even sure why it was still lying around - I suppose it was because I didn't want to let it go before I'd actually tried to learn how to use it. See? I can still learn new things!

Out on the Town

A couple of weeks ago, I gathered with some of my Cristo Rey friends for a long overdue dinner. Out at a restaurant and everything! (I'm at the point in my Covid-precaution life where I have decided to trust the vaccines. This latest variant is everywhere, but my friends who have gotten it are all coming through it all right. It's still not fun, but I can't stay home forever.) As we were finishing up a delicious meal, the restaurant owner came over and offered us four tickets to a play at Starlight, the local outdoor theater, the next week. No strings attached. 

It took us a minute to realize what he was offering, but once we did, we quickly took him up on his offer. Two of us couldn't go, but I was happy to take two of the tickets - it's been a long time since I've been to the theater. When I got home, I invited my friend Gayla to go with me - she was also happy to jump on the bandwagon.

Wednesday came, and I got all dolled up for the occasion. She arrived right on time to pick me up, and off to the show we went. We paid for parking, got out of the car, and headed for the gates. I reached for my purse to get the tickets, and stopped short.

Tickets. 

"Aw, sh**!"

It's been a LONG time since I had paper tickets for anything, and I had completely forgotten to pick them up off the dining room table where I'd left them earlier in the day so I would be sure to remember them.

I don't know about you all, but I have anxiety dreams about this sort of thing all the time. I just USUALLY manage to avoid having them come true in real life.

Gayla gave me a concerned look when I stopped and 'fessed up. 
"You're kidding." 
"Nope, I'm not."

With matching large sighs, we turned around to go back to the car to go back to my house to get the tickets. I felt awful. She, bless her heart, took the whole thing in stride. We'd purposely gotten to the venue early, so we could catch up on each other's lives while we ate dinner there before the show. Thank goodness for that, because it turned the whole situation into a nothing-burger.

We didn't get to talk as much as we'd hoped because of all the driving, but we still got in some good conversation. I don't live THAT far from the theater, so we had time, even with the extra trip, to enjoy our dinner; albeit not at the leisurely pace we'd planned. 

The show, Sister Act, was fun! I laughed out loud! And, I really liked the part where I got to be in the same place with other people who were also clearly enjoying the show. (Group energy! I've missed group energy...)

The evening was a good reminder for me. A reminder there are generous people in the world, like the restaurant owner, who are willing to give something for nothing. A reminder that I can mess up big time, and not have it ruin the entire evening because there are people like Gayla who will go with the flow, and adjust as needed, and not even be mad at me. *whew*

Good Is!

Cat Adjustments

I didn't really think Monster would miss Angel. I know she was his mom, but I must say, she, with her random paw swipes, really wasn't very nice to him. They weren't enemies - they'd often share the sofa or bed - but neither did they seem to be friends.

But he's definitely noticed she's gone. The first week or so after she died, he kept going over to her sad kitty corner. He'd sniff around, then look at me as if to say, "do you know where she went?" I didn't know how to answer.

He seems to be quite happy about the part where he's gotten to take over the prime upper cave on the kitty tree - he rarely got to stay up there when she was around - so I figured he'd be just fine, given a little time.

Monster's morning box-with-water ritual has been a must-happen thing for almost a decade now. I'm not fond of cats on the counter, but he is always so happy and expectant and it's really not such a bad thing to have him there just for his morning drink, now is it?

The day after Angel died, he jumped in the sink, and not really paying attention to what I was doing, I turned the water on for him as I have a thousand times before. It splashed him in the face, which has happened often enough, but this time he must have gotten some up his nose or in his eye, because he shot out of the sink like I'd put the vacuum cleaner in there with him. 

I always thought I'd be glad to stop this particular ritual, but, but. But he seemed so scared, and I was sad about Angel, so I went and got him, picked him up, petted him, and put him back in the sink. He instantly shot out again. *sigh*

I hoped it would be a one-day thing, he's not the most intelligent of cats, and sure enough, the next morning, he jumped into the sink as soon as I walked into the kitchen. I thought all was forgiven and hopefully forgotten. Then I turned on the water and off he went. Hmm. I began to see the bright side of this.

The next day, though, he didn't leave. He shrank away from the water stream as though it were Angel's claw, but bravely held his ground. The next day, he tentatively poked out his nose and sniffed at it before pulling back. Each day, things have been a bit better, and this morning, he finally reached out and took a few tentative licks at the stream of water.

All is right in his world, which makes things just a little righter in mine.

Puzzle Break

When I looked forward to retirement, I figured I'd be like my Aunt Lou. Once upon a time, talking about her life, she said, "I spent the first twenty years growing up, the next twenty raising kids, the next twenty working, and now I'm spending the next twenty just enjoying myself!" (Since then, she's passed the end of that twenty year block, but I am glad to report she is still doing a bang-up job of enjoying life.) 

I thought it was a great way to approach life, and decided then and there that I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I still don't understand why I'm having so much trouble with this doing-to-being transition - I mean, if she can do it, so can I, right???

In the spirit of trying to "do" less, last week, I only put three things on my to-do list - if I'd have worked steadily, I could have done them all in less than a day. But I didn't work steadily. I didn't even finish the things on the list. I did the first two things, and started on the third. But then, instead of finishing my task, I got out a jigsaw puzzle.

Until I finished it this morning, every free moment of the last few days has been spent assembling the picture. It amazes me how quickly time passes when I'm puzzling. Normally, I'm antsy, unable to sit for too long. But give me a good puzzle, and I can happily sit for hours on end, procrastinating on all the things that I wanted/needed to get done, working to find just one more piece.

What better way to practice being?

I usually pull out a puzzle for a reason; I've found it to be a wonderful meditation vehicle. As my eyes scan the table, my hands pulling together all the pieces that contain any yellow, my surface mind lets go of conscious thought. My quiet inner voice starts mulling over life questions, such as "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" 

These days, I no longer look to come up with answers, but in keeping with what I've learned about emotions not being good or bad, but rather data, I try to listen to the feelings that bubble to the surface. (And hoo-boy were there a lot of them this time, because, life.)

I finished the puzzle calmer and less anxious than when I'd started it three days ago. Even though my conversations were only with myself, I feel heard, and have a better idea of what's been churning beneath the surface, messing with my sleep.

Not a bad form of therapy, I must say.

Good Enough

When I put the checkerboard tile floor down in the kitchen some seven years ago, I kinda knew I was asking for trouble. The floor is decidedly NOT level, and tile is not known for its bendability.

Sure enough, over the years, several tiles have cracked. Three gave way beneath the pressure of moving the fridge around the room, two have multiple fault lines from the pressure of a too-pointy chair leg; I don't know what excuse the others think they have.

I did a little internet research to see if there was anything, short of replacing the tiles, I could do to help hide the cracks, and found several sources who mentioned using an epoxy glue to fill the cracks, then painting the lines to help the glue blend in. It seemed like a not-unreasonable solution, so I ran it past the guys at the tile store when I was there asking about my failed grout. They agreed - and sent me to a small shop specializing in countertop installation supplies to get the good stuff.  

It took some time to convince the guy running the store I could use the epoxy without gluing the cat to the floor (I guess I don't look like a bona-fide countertop installer. Who knew?), but I got the good stuff. When you use the good stuff, you color the epoxy before adding the hardener, thus eliminating the sure-to-be-problematic step of keeping the lines painted to match the tiles. I was happy with my purchase, but once I got home, had a procrastination attack. Regular, hardware-store-grade epoxy has a cure time of 20-30 minutes. You have some time to fix your mistakes before things harden up. The good stuff gives you a 3-4 minute window before beginning to set up and becoming useless. I was afraid of doing a real botch job on the floor, and then having to decide if I want to spend the next x years looking at evidence of my ineptitude or replacing the whole **mn floor.

I tried looking up Google tips and tricks, but Google let me down. The pros out there are NOT creating tutorials on how to do this at home. *sigh* Not one to give up easily, I called the goop manufacturer, and after a couple of dead ends, was connected to a sales guy who helpfully spent a good 30 minutes giving me pointers on mixing and using the stuff.

Feeling much more confident, I procrastinated for another week on general principle, then set out one afternoon to clean and prepare the cracks per the instructions. My first two tries with batches of epoxy were a disaster. The instructions I'd been given would have worked beautifully for straight-line seams, but my floor cracks were anything but neat lines.

Frustrated, I threw up my hands and went to bed.

As I lay there, stewing and reviewing, revising and what-if-ing, some alternatives to the way I'd been told to do it floated to the surface of my mind. I drifted off to sleep somewhat comforted - at least I had new things to try in the morning.

I got up the next day, and ignoring a lot of what I'd been told, started afresh. This time, things went a lot better. I mixed up a super-small batch of goo, and used a razor blade to press the epoxy into the cracks of the first tile. I had paper towels and a cup of acetone at the ready to swipe up the extra glue, and lo and behold, the tile was repaired in short order, with very little mess. (I also had on a good P100 face mask and had a fan set up to exhaust the air from the room, so I didn't destroy my lungs in the process. I AM trainable.)

A couple of hours later, the floor looked as good as it's going to get. The cracks are still there, but are no longer eye-catching - you need to look to see them - which is exactly what I'd. hoped for. No longer are they the first thing I notice about the floor when I walk in the room, and I can now quit worrying about the broken pieces working their way loose to leave gaps in the floor.

Progress, even - or, especially - in the small things, feels good.