Anybody who knows me, knows I watch way too much tennis.
Um, not too much for ME. Oh no. Never, never too much for me. But I might be a smidge on the fanatical side for your normal human. I make no apologies, mind you, but you know you’re on the edge of fan-effing-crazy when you watch entire matches live and then, later, in replay, and when you know the names of the chair umpires: Hey look, it’s Eva Asderaki in the chair!
I’ve been up at four or five a.m. every single day for the last two weeks, because that’s when the London action starts for the American, west coast tennis-obsessed, and I’ve watched endless hours of matches. But guess what? All is not lost. I’ve used much of this time to edit my manuscript. It’s crazy how much can get done with a laptop, literally, on your lap. My back is killing me. (Not an exaggeration.) I woke up yesterday morning with my back so out of whack I downed no less than 8 Advil. (Okay, maybe 12. No joke.) I think I’ve pinched a nerve. That’s how bad it is. The pain radiates and throbs. Radiates and throbs all night long. No wonder I’m up at 4 a.m.
But hey, it’s been worth it. Aside from seeing some truly great tennis, I moved my 300 pages forward, and I managed to eliminate most errant uses of the words “it” and “just” and “then” during these Championships. For that, I have only tennis to thank. The Championships, Wimbledon — thank you very much — kept my literal butt in the proverbial chair. And that’s how this writing business gets done. (or so I hear….)
My 4 and 5 a.m. tennis ended today. I cried. Who could see this and not cry? Normal human or not.
Congratulations Andy Murray. You done good, kid. I’m so proud.
Tomorrow Andy will get back to work. So will I — at my desk! In my ergonomic chair. Here’s hoping I remember how to think and work there.