whacking balls (this isn't x-rated, I swear)

When the nice weather comes, the Betsey wants to play. It’s just nature. She sees the sunshine and feels the warm air and she wants to be six years old again so that if she were to decide to do a few cartwheels of joy, people wouldn’t look at her with that look of pity that makes obvious the fact that they think she rode the little bus to school everyday. Coincidentally, I also receive this look when someone stops me for directions or to try to sell me a new cell phone plan or to get me to donate to the wildlife federation or whatever those people with the panda bear vests are from. I reply, the American accent is noted, and the ‘look’ with the accompanying exaggeratedly slow nod ensues. The one that says, “Ohhhh I see… you’re Ameeeeerican… that’s shame… I’ll ask elsewhere....”

Anyways. Every year, when springtime really comes around, I want to play sports. And by springtime I mean after those few teaser days in like February that are freakishly warm and that fill us with false hope before giving us the finger, throwing us down a flight of stairs, and plummeting us all back into tundra-like conditions. The weather right now (70’s, sunny, delightful little white puffy clouds…) makes me think of softball games and tennis matches. Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to start up a quick game of softball/baseball/whiffle-ball for obvious reasons of participation. This is where tennis becomes really useful: you only need one other person and usually you can find that willing volunteer without too much difficulty. However, my tennis racket, if it hasn’t since been stolen by my brother during my cross-seas absence, is at home in my room, lonely and unplayed with since last summer. Wow. I almost just made myself feel guilty for neglecting it…

So I tried running. Like, hmm maybe I’ll learn to enjoy running, thinking that perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Like beer. When you sneak that first sip from your parents' beer when you're like 10 years old, you gag and spit as if you had accidentally swallowed sewage and then go clamoring frantically like a drug addict through the fridge in search of a grape juicebox to erase the taste of that fermented beverage from hell. And then, magically, by the time you're 18 that same devil drink quenches your thirst and delights your pallate. I keep thinking the same phenomenon may someday happen with running. I’ve tried this a few times… to get to the point where running is enjoyable. But no. I will never ever ever be one of those people who enjoy a good 5 mile run to start my day. I will also never be one of those people who go running to work off stress. In fact, it makes me MORE stressed because halfway into the run I’ll be yelling at myself. For example: “You KNOW Betsey, this would be a lot easier if you had some self-control and RATIONED that box of Girl Scout cookies instead of eating them all in two days.” When I’m stressed, I don't need to run around in cirlces. I need to HIT things. (Dear friends and family, don’t worry… this doesn’t include people… at least not usually…) In fact, the sports I like are the ones where hitting stuff is the key part of the game. Softball/ baseball (hit ball)… tennis (hit ball)… rugby (hit people and break their legs)… and the reason I stopped playing golf was because it has one fun part and the rest is crap. Like come on… I only get to slam the ball 18 times and then do the boring stuff at least twice that many times? I think not. Although driving the golf cart is unexpectedly fun, you can just leave me on the driving range. It’s the only part thats worth it.

So now there’s a new sport in my life. It’s a little thang called padel/paddle, which I like to think of as a cross between tennis and glorified ping pong. Smaller court, a wall which I will never be able to properly use to my advantage, tennis ball, and this crazy paddle-racket thing with holes in it. We’ve had a few rough patches, this game and I… for example, being completely confused the first day, getting used to the shorter length of the paddle when I’m used to the length of a tennis racket (there were a lot of whiffs that first day… and Angel, Alfonso, and Salva were probably rolling their eyes non-stop during this attempt to teach me to play), and then the other day I actually whacked myself in the forehead with the paddle, an ace move which luckily went unnoticed, along with the fact that I was running around with one eye closed for a few minutes until the pain dulled, by the same three people. For anyone who was worried, the egg that it left is almost gone.

So, I actually really like playing now, I once again get to run around and hit stuff, and all is well in the world.