Wednesday June 11, 2003

Drina can't play tennis. Just move on.

Yesterday after work I met my awesome friend, Ro Jo, for a game of tennis. While talking to her on the phone, I got the impression that we'd be hitting the ball back and forth a little just for fun. I can't play tennis worth crap even though I love the game, but I try to hit the courts every now and then anyway. Only problem is that she got the impression that I could actually play, and that we'd be keeping score for a friendly competitive match.

Yeah, no.

When we got to the public courts she whipped out her shiny new racket and started hitting the ball inside the lines (where they were supposed to go), which I proceded to return outside the lines (and in some cases outside the fenced-in court). She was trying to be nice, giving me tips and giving me praise, but in the end we both came to the conclusion that I just can't play tennis. I can't. Period.

After getting home from my comical display at the community courts, I took a shower and layed down for a nap. I was beat. And as I drifted off into that blissful state of unconsciousness, I dreamed that my name was Venus, and that I could whip a tennis ball from here to San Jose and hit my mark with such accuracy that I could make Andre Agassi cry. My imaginary foray into the world of professional athletics was cut short by the kick-start of an old lawnmower next door, but today I'm still feeling some of the residual high left over from my two minutes as the winner of this year's Wimbledon. Ahhhh.

Kudos to Heather for the Kelly Clarkson layout. I like :)