Deuce

I relish my Sunday mornings. Usually first one to be up and running, I have an established routine: Wake up, make a cup of coffee, pick up the newspaper, go to the porch (alternated by the cozy living room couch in winters), de-tangle each section, place in order: Week In Review, Styles, Main section, Business, Metro, and Sports, and finally, lull into the day...

I am a girl with a penchant for routines, and a desire for a dash of sudden bursts of spontaneity. Pepper in some self-reflections and revelations along the way, and you got me, growing up...

This morning, my routine was disrupted by Wimbledon. Not so spontaneously, but in a nice, surprising way. Starting at 9:00 AM, hubby and I were glued to Channel 4, watching Nadal and Federer swing at each other. A self-proclaimed "occasional tennis fan", (Please, don't tell my Dad, he'd be crushed to know that I don't watch every major Open- not even the finals) I found myself at 4:30 PM, still in our couch, admiring Federer's grace (and his long fingers- seeing the resemblance to my very own!!!), and Nadal's child-like insistence on winning over his much better-skilled opponent. (All in this time, I've also managed to bake "Pecan-Honey Buns" straight out of next month's Food & Wine issue- an on-and-off 3.5 hour ordeal, with criminally sticky results!)

Watching the ball go from one end of the court to the next, a flood of memories surrounded me: younger me passing Ankara afternoons at a tennis club admiring my Dad play; sultry summer evenings in the town of Kusadasi, at the then-only 5-star hotel, huddled onto chintzy couches by the pool-side bar's TV, mesmerized by Ivan Lendl, instead of taking another dip in the pool; a teenager me, looking out from my bedroom window, over the river to Queens at the white HRC bubbles, imagining John McEnroe playing right at that minute; and, later, a younger adult me, perched on my blue sofa bed in my Brooklyn Heights brownstone, absent mindedly staring at the US Open- and Andre Agassi- in the heat of early-September of New York City...

Then a flood of questions: How come I never took my love for tennis onto the courts? Why did I never follow up my Dad's insistence that I take lessons? What is it about playing tennis that I find so intimidating? I think this is the part of the afternoon, where I laid the pecan-honey bun dough to rest.

I felt today turned from watching the longest Wimbledon match ever-played to seeing myself in a different light: I notice that I am upset that I never had the stamina to learn the techniques, the patience to fail, and the persistence to improve my skills. I see that tennis had been about never trying, and then always about quitting. Am I still this girl? The quitter? No, sir, no! Not me!

A sense of urgency overwhelmed me. I took out my (very) old tennis raquet and dusted it clean. After dinner, I promised myself to look up our local town recreational department's summer calendar to sign up for a course. And, yes, Beginners, please, I would like to savor re-learning the sport.

Hey- I think I am growing up!