The Australian Open is on.
I know this because I opened up the DVR menu to play back a recording of the new Candace Olson show and saw that 7 hours of day one already recorded.
My DVR is psychic. Which is freaky.
We told it, way back in 2006 when we lived in another house, that we wanted it to record Wimbledon. It will now record Wimbledon every year until robots take over the earth and turn the All England Lawn and Racquet Club into a Jiffy Lube.
It’s uncanny, our DVR, the way we tell it we want to record something once and it knows forever more. Eventually it will start making programming decisions for us and we’ll find that instead of “The Big Bang Theory” that is recording episodes of Nova that are hosted by Steven Hawking because it’s tired of us pursuing lightweight entertainment.
But back to tennis.
I love tennis. I was on the tennis team in high school. I accomplished this tremendous athletic feat by showing up at the appointed practice time with a big stick with strings on it.
This was the criteria in my high-school for being on the team. Yay for rural education!
So I love tennis, and watching the premier athletes at one of the Opens is just what I need to remind myself that I love tennis and make me forget that I am not any good at it and inspire me to ransack the garage looking for my graphite alloy stick with the strings on it.
So I’m on the tennis court.
And I SO look like I belong there. I have the cute outfits, I have the good shoes, I have a swanky racquet.
I am the absolute picture of tennis playing pinnacleness.
Until someone hits a ball at me. Then we have this:
But after a few episodes of evading green fuzzy death projectiles my confidence comes back and I can stand facing my opponent (typically the very, very patient man to whom I am married) long enough to make contact between my graphite stick and the furry neon ball of mortality.
I have honed a few quality returns to absolute science. Here is a sampling:
After which, like all premiere players, I take my rehydration responsibilities very, very seriously.
It’s ok. It’s got mint. It’s totally healthy.
PS – We are watching tape-delay Australian Open and as of this moment have thirty-three thousand hours to catch up on. If you know ANYTHING about the Australian Open – other than the fact that is played in Australia – do not tell me!