The last time I stepped onto the courts after a long hiatus, I was pretty sure mortality would overtake me, so dire were the effects of physical exertion upon my body. This made perfect sense, in retrospect, because I was hinging all my hopes for a healthy lifestyle on a few hours of tennis each week, without any real concessions on caloric intake. This was the equivalent of wanting to build a plane using a handful of O2 masks and vomit bags.
But I didn’t feel like I was dying last week, when tennis with King Calm started in earnest, and that may be the most ringing endorsement of my health regimen to date. It was revelatory, in a way, to not be inconvenienced by my body, even after 90 minutes of play. I was slightly winded and glazed in sweat, to be sure, but in full command of mobility and lung capacity. King Calm does CrossFit a few times a week, too, which makes him as tough an opponent as ever, and keeping pace is the price of admission for a good match.
What enhanced our Monday match even more, at least for me, was the realization that I was trying to improve my game, rather than straight up win. This wasn’t semi-finals in the Frisco Open, after all. In place of my timid, weaksauce second serves were bets, some of which panned out, some of which didn’t. I’d like to think I made good on my closing wish from back in December–and here, now, we faced off on the courts, our better selves in a better time, swatting at a fuzzy yellow ball, as men.
Yesterday afternoon, under a bright Texan sun, I went to work on my car with an Allen wrench to swap out my license plate. This exercise was long overdue–technically you’ve got 90 days upon arrival to make the switch–but I’ve been busy and couldn’t be bothered with such regulations. Now that I’m Texas-legit, though, it feels like I’ve reached a milestone, at least until I get my license, which likely should’ve been done months ago.
I’m still not sure what to think about this place. The mercury hit 90 a few days ago, so the overriding feeling then was dread about the summer, but I’m settling in otherwise. Don’t get lost as often. The lack of green still gets to me at times, and I frequently wonder why there’s so much wind here. The Swedish chariot got a full dose of hail one night, which left deep, lasting impressions all over it. She’ll need some work done.
I’ll be flying back to Charlotte next week, first time since I drove down here. Honestly, though, I haven’t missed it much. There are people there, to be sure, and certain foods I crave, but on the whole, it’s turned misty. Gauzy, with the rare recollection flitting through. I feel unmoored. I’m searching for that feeling of place–and maybe getting there is simply a question of time and disposition.
Last time we spoke, I concluded with a small tirade–or a pierade, as the case may be–and after some reflection, I arrived at why I respond so viscerally to situations like these. I don’t like being sold. Now, being oversold is bad enough in itself, but the base act of selling also grates to no end.
There are different types of salesmanship, of course. Take the checkout line, for instance, where extended protection plans and store credit cards are regularly pushed. I get it. Part of the job. And when reps admit they have to pitch, often with a sigh, I empathize. The hard sell, however, is where you lose me. Last week comes to mind–at a Marshalls, surprisingly, from the cashier. “Before you say ‘no,’ hear me out,” she said, unfurling the credit card brochure. “It’s an amazing deal.”
This was a Marshalls, for fuck’s sake! The only thing I find consistently amazing is the variety of almost-food strewn along the checkout lane. In the case of the insurance she-carney, it was the lack of candor, attempt at running the clock, and cheeseball lines likely conceived at a sales workshop in the nice banquet hall of a Hojo–“I just want to figure out where the objection is, so we can work through the ‘no.'”–that pressed all the wrong buttons.
There’s this sense, too, of time wasted from doing the dance. I see the subtext, clear as day, and the lines so carefully practiced have all the subtlety of a polar bear wielding a scalpel. When I finally extracted a refund, it wasn’t even about the money–I reveled more in the fact that she had lost a sale, which is pretty twisted. Tomorrow, I’ve got my first-ever meeting with a financial advisor, and if ever there were a time when alarm bells should stay silent, 10:30 AM would be it.