It’s a perfect moment. A twenty-four-hour bug has run its course through my system. I slept and hallucinated throughout the day, flipping between sweating and chills. I closed it down last night at 8 pm and awoke at three am. Hungry and thirsty. Still in the backwash of the illness, somewhere between sick and optimistic.
I fed the hunger, swallowed a few acetaminophen. And now, in a moment of perfect ease, I am sitting in my massage chair watching the women’s quarter finals of the US Open. Ah, New York, my fantasy land. I sit up in the chair, the fan overhead cooling me through my sweaty t-shirt. I am happy. I’m also not sure what day it is. I’ve been home sick and I either have one more day of work or two before my next day off. At this moment, watching these athletes do their thing, I couldn’t care less. I am certain I have to be at work at 9 am.
In my family mythology I was too young to go with my family when my dad flew everyone to the Bahamas. I was left with grandmana at the lake. As the story goes, the small aircraft ran out of fuel over the ocean, no coastline in sight. For a minute, my dad tried to remain calm. He switched from the main gas tank to the second one and restarted the plane. All went well. One of the players in the tennis match is from the Bahamas. I’ve never been.
I am watching two women, 27 and 31, blasting yellow balls at each other wearing colorful dresses with closeups and angles. It almost feels inappropriate. Maybe I’m still a bit loopy from my feverbreak. I can tell my body is repairing. I have to be at work in 2 and a half hours. Two of the alternative jobs have fallen through. Oh joy. Still opening doors, but it is tiring. It’s easy to give up.
I wonder how aging begins to slow the healing process. My best friend is dealing with cancer at 80. He has the best attitude of anyone I know. I’ve sort of adopted him as a father figure. He has certainly be there for me more than any other person. He stays through divorces, breakups, breakdowns. He remains a committed tennis partner. We both agree that tennis is a good reason for us to keep getting together. His current radiation treatments will keep him off the court for three weeks. We talk on the phone most mornings.
“How’s it going? What do you have going today?”
We all want to help each other. It’s actually a gift, being allowed to help, being in the inner sanctum of health and end-of-life care. The discussions are still light and optimistic. The specialist says three years. Says the radiation will be light, quick, and more like a sore throat. His perspective often provides instruction on how to deal with major setbacks. Through his prostate removal and other maladies. He returns to the tennis courts with me and to the golf links with others.
As the tennis match on screen rages on, I am aware of my loneliness. Wishing I had a woman to adore. Yet, not willing to give up any of my freetime. The thrill I feel with the opportunities provided by an evening off. Driving home from work I experience joy. So, even as I pine for companionship, I am finding joy and productivity in this liminal space. A slow summer I will never forget. A few health events of my own. I’m still rebuilding myself. Still suffering from my underemployment.
I am definitely down a set. Rallying thought, trying to find momentum in job descriptions and “easy apply” applications. My life is full of tennis playing women, for now, on the television set. I anticipate my own second coming even as this match is ending in a third set, the next women’s quarterfinals match is coming right up.
What is it about tennis players that captures my imagination? Youth? Fitness? Fame? Diamonds?
I realize I have been watching 20-something women play tennis for over forty years. It’s no wonder that I have a body type, right? Studying the beauties from Sabatini to Sabalenka over the course of my entire adult life. Even sharing the adoration with other tennis players who I will celebrate the final of the US Open with a group of men I’ve played with for over thirty years. My tribe plays tennis.
