Something to know about me in 2025 is that I’ve become the neighborhood voyeur. Four freshly renovated tennis courts opposite my apartment beckon me daily; a hooked index finger tempting me with good, honest time. An hour’s all I need to thrash about, try and prove something inconsequential to myself, defog the mirrors of my mind and leave a better woman. Only instead of playing, I watch.
Not by choice. I’m injured, and sheepishly so. Back stiffness I ignored became a herniated disc I couldn’t. Where tennis could once insulate me from the humdrum of gyms, I’d no choice but to join one to strength-train to build a butt to hold up a degenerate back.
Gyms and suffering notwithstanding, I can’t step outside without hearing the pleasant thwack of racquet meeting ball, or seeing a beet-faced disciple—one of us—at war with their mind-body connection. Sometimes, I set my burgeoning ass down on a bench and watch awhile.