Thursday, May 30, 2013

After more than a month of regular exercise, I’ve finally dropped– Well, it’s either one, two, or a paltry three pounds, max, depending on the day of week and wind shear. I have a theory, and it’s by no means revolutionary: this is what metabolism is like in your 30s. Time was, a regimen like this would virtually guarantee progress at four, five times the pace. I just wish I had more data to confirm my theory, but honestly the last time I subjected myself to scheduled torture was in my 20s, and two points does not a curve make.

But I’m having a hell of a lot of fun. I suppose if weight loss were the true aim of my industry, I would’ve supplemented tennis with jogging and a revamped diet, complete with fresh salads, tree bark, and kale smoothies or some shit. No! No. I shall not trod in depths such as these yet. To wit: I tried a bacon and egg pizza during lunch yesterday, if you can fathom such a Venn diagram, and by “tried,” I mean I crushed the whole damn thing.

The sun was especially brutal this afternoon–a summer sun, the likes of which I traditionally would’ve traded for air conditioning and video games. Not today, though. A few of my serves sounded like gunshots, which was gratifying to no end, and I cannot reiterate enough the importance of the toss. That said, I’ve been committing to every toss, good or bad, in an attempt to whip my form into shape. It just feels shameful to have your opponent wait for a re-toss, you know? And yet, I’m certain my decision has cost me dignity, especially when I end up throwing the ball slightly behind my head, forcing me to contort my body to make the serve. In my mind’s eye, I see a vignette of grit and determination. But to the spectator? A horrifying rain dance, or a Pentecostal match point.