Sara Evans has a rockin' body even though she's had two kids and her jerk of an Ex-husband broke her little heart. She gives all the credit to tennis. . .If it's good enough for Sara, it's good enough for me. My Mom and I like to have "bonding moments" they normally include: reading parties on her bed, Sunday afternoon naps (also on her bed), and a plethora of other activities. Recently we have taken up tennis.
Well I don't know if you could really call it that, you see the sad truth is that we kinda suck. When I say we what I really mean is me. Mom is actually good, darn her natural athleticism!! Speaking of which could she not have spared an ounce of skill to pass on to her darling daughter?? She says she gave me all of her craftiness (as in ability to make and create things, not in a sneaky burglar kind of way) Craftiness is nice and all but it doesn't exactly help me to tone my arms or flabby stomach so maybe I'll ask about a trade in? Can you trade traits?? If so I would like Miley Cyrus's hair, Julianne Hough's fake tan, Miranda Conkle's firm skin, and Mom's tennis technique.
This is how the tennis time goes down: Mom serves (it lands within two feet of where I am) I miss, "Sorry Mom!", she replies, "It's okay honey, try again." Mom serves a second time. I hit it at a dramatic angle that sends it flying directly at the person in the court next to us. . .on my side of the net. Mom serves a third time (trying to hide the S***-eating grin that takes over her face from my last attempt) I connect! "That one is totally gonna land on your side of the net! Winner!" I shout triumphantly!
We stop ever so often to collect the three bags of balls that are all gathered in happy little groups against my side of the fence. Mom's side is empty. . .of course.
When I do manage to actually hit the dumb neon ball I normally like to add a little flare normally in the shape of a nice leg kick or spin or something. Sometimes I even throw in a hair flip (the skanky white-trash boys who are playing basketball across the way go crazy for the hair flip)
So playing tennis in Missouri is like playing tennis in the little 4X3 sauna at the gym. The air is hot like sin, and thick like peanut butter. Mom and I are super glisteny by the time we are through. . .who am I kidding? Truth is I sweat like a man. The idea that girls have to glisten daintily while men can sweat buckets of salty manliness is pretty lame. You heard it here first: REAL WOMEN SWEAT LIKE MEN.
Real Women also make fishy faces as often as possible. . .
Screw Julianne Hough! I'll take Mom's fake tan in addition to her skill. Might as well keep it in the family :)
Mom gets 10 points for skill and 5 more for patience. I get 2 points for playing even though it is painfully obvious that I blow. 3 points for enduring the ridiculous heat and 10 points for looking the part = TIE
This look says, "Hey I am extra sporty. . .I have excellent stamina and will never surrender. Feel free to hit the ball anywhere you like because my sassy nike's will carry me swiftly to the desired destination with ease and elegance." Kinda a mouth full for one outfit but hey my wardrobe is kind of a chatty-Kathy or should we say chatty-Cassie??!!
In the end Mom always wins. I have come to accept that. Although how could she not? I mean she gets to spend a solid hour and a half laughing as I trip all over myself and swear directly at the ball from time to time. Good humor.
Funny-and-slightly-less-fat Over and Out
Well I don't know if you could really call it that, you see the sad truth is that we kinda suck. When I say we what I really mean is me. Mom is actually good, darn her natural athleticism!! Speaking of which could she not have spared an ounce of skill to pass on to her darling daughter?? She says she gave me all of her craftiness (as in ability to make and create things, not in a sneaky burglar kind of way) Craftiness is nice and all but it doesn't exactly help me to tone my arms or flabby stomach so maybe I'll ask about a trade in? Can you trade traits?? If so I would like Miley Cyrus's hair, Julianne Hough's fake tan, Miranda Conkle's firm skin, and Mom's tennis technique.
This is how the tennis time goes down: Mom serves (it lands within two feet of where I am) I miss, "Sorry Mom!", she replies, "It's okay honey, try again." Mom serves a second time. I hit it at a dramatic angle that sends it flying directly at the person in the court next to us. . .on my side of the net. Mom serves a third time (trying to hide the S***-eating grin that takes over her face from my last attempt) I connect! "That one is totally gonna land on your side of the net! Winner!" I shout triumphantly!
We stop ever so often to collect the three bags of balls that are all gathered in happy little groups against my side of the fence. Mom's side is empty. . .of course.
When I do manage to actually hit the dumb neon ball I normally like to add a little flare normally in the shape of a nice leg kick or spin or something. Sometimes I even throw in a hair flip (the skanky white-trash boys who are playing basketball across the way go crazy for the hair flip)
So playing tennis in Missouri is like playing tennis in the little 4X3 sauna at the gym. The air is hot like sin, and thick like peanut butter. Mom and I are super glisteny by the time we are through. . .who am I kidding? Truth is I sweat like a man. The idea that girls have to glisten daintily while men can sweat buckets of salty manliness is pretty lame. You heard it here first: REAL WOMEN SWEAT LIKE MEN.
Mom gets 10 points for skill and 5 more for patience. I get 2 points for playing even though it is painfully obvious that I blow. 3 points for enduring the ridiculous heat and 10 points for looking the part = TIE
This look says, "Hey I am extra sporty. . .I have excellent stamina and will never surrender. Feel free to hit the ball anywhere you like because my sassy nike's will carry me swiftly to the desired destination with ease and elegance." Kinda a mouth full for one outfit but hey my wardrobe is kind of a chatty-Kathy or should we say chatty-Cassie??!!
In the end Mom always wins. I have come to accept that. Although how could she not? I mean she gets to spend a solid hour and a half laughing as I trip all over myself and swear directly at the ball from time to time. Good humor.
Funny-and-slightly-less-fat Over and Out
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