I’m completely spent. Physically. It feels great. After an interval of several months, I’m playing tennis regularly again. Today marks the third time in a span of a week. I love going out there and just whacking the ball as hard as I can. It’s not a good workout unless I’m totally pooped after, and if I’m going to sweat I might as well go all the way, right?
If only I can clock 11am to 7pm so I can get in some tennis in the mornings, though tiring myself out for an evening in front of the telly also feels pretty good. I highly recommend strenuous exercise for the angst-filled; it’s the perfect channel for pent-up frustration and unreleased anger, and it’s guaranteed to leave you too exhausted to be worked up over anything.
While I’m on the subject of tennis, Wimbledon has begun, and Y and I are keeping a close watch on the proceedings. My die-hard Roger Federer fan hubby is hoping the Swiss world number one will take the trophy, but I reckon it’s time someone else is crowned champion. I don’t care if it’s world number two Rafael Nadal or world number three Novak Djokovic or even some dark horse like Marat Safin (that’s almost impossible but I like Safin because he’s good-looking so there).
So the rivalry is on. With Federer and Djokovic drawn in the same half, only one of them can make it to the final, and we’re both betting the other finalist will be Nadal. Fingers crossed.
