A Tennis Match For The Paradise

Daughter number one and the traveling husband are getting ready to go play tennis and daughter number two decides to go along as well.I bet she goes more for the chance to wear her new outfit then for the love of tennis but,whatever her reasons are ,the fact that she is going leaves me being the only one missing….one more time!Two sets of pleading and disappointed eyes are looking at me.I am thinking at a reasonable excuse that has not been overused .I can’t say that I am tired and I want to rest and chill because I have just resuscitated from the most amazing afternoon nap ever.I don’t know you,but I believe that hot summer afternoons are particularly ideal for a nap,cuddled by the breeze that comes in from an ajar window:pure heaven!The best excuse I come up with is that it is too hot for me to play,and it wouldn’t even be entirely false if it was three in the afternoon.Being instead six in the evening,at my words an other set of eyes joined in disbelief :”Seriously you couldn’t come up with anything better?Born and raise in Italy it is too hot to play tennis in Ireland?”.
As soon they leave the house I am starting to feel guilty and even more guilty for the fact that I don’t actually feel guilty to not want to play tennis with my gang but more for the fact that I should be out there moving my ass considering all the wine and cheese I managed to shovel down my throats over the long weekend.I am supposed to fit into that evil invention called bikini in a month and all the odds are conjuring against me but,I am determined to fight back. In a flash I am changed and I am riding my bike to the tennis court.Father and daughters are genuinely and pleasantly surprise to see me.The most happy seems to be daughter number two who,like the mother,she is notoriously not competitive and not really athletic either.When I arrived the poor thing is caught in the middle between her sister and her father lecturing her about the basics of tennis when not busy trying to trick each other in order to win the game.

This tennis court is tarmac and my cracked knees find particularly hard to hold on.Over the years I did fall an impressive number of times and few of them with some serious injuries.Eventually ,last summer,I changed club and switch to one with artificial grass.This is in part the reason I usually don’t come play with them here.An other reason is because I really value to stay at home on my own.Last but not least,I secretly hate playing against the traveling husband.He plays much better then me,thing that saves me from being picked as partner for tournaments and that it is not too bad but,the main problem,is that he is left-handed and consequently mainly serves me ball on that side.My backhand is really weak and playing with him it is a torture.I spend most of the time on court twisting and contorting in order to manage to hit the ball back with my forehand.The movements and the efforts I do to avoid using my backhand always generate in my opponent an annoying and patronizing look.In me, instead,they generate the assumption that, If the times would get hard, I have an open career in the circus as a contortionist.

After two hours we all have enough. The travelling husband is lobster red on the back of his neck;daughter number one is satisfied because she won;daughter number two showed off enough the new outfit and she is starving;me,I am happy enough convinced that not only I lost some calories but I also gained a couple of position in the queue to paradise.I mean,what I just did was nothing but the purest sacrifice of a pious and considerate mother and wife.

Unfortunately, once at home,those few positioned I so hardly gained,are destined to be lost when I unleash my swearing mouth at the sight of dog’s diarrhea on the white rug in the kitchen. Why they never dirt on the bare floor will always be a mystery. It happened the previous night too,just not on the white rug in the kitchen but on the white carpet of my bedroom that,thankfully,can be washed with bleach.

While I’m busy cleaning,the traveling husband offers to feed the dogs that,having properly cleansed themselves,are evidently hungry.He came out the laundry room with their bowl and showed them to me with a self pleased expression:”See:less food ,less poo”.The amount of food was scarse but I honestly couldn’t argue with that.I actually get his logic,I really do.The problem is that if the previous night I barely slept because busy cleaning dogs ‘shit;this coming night I will probably barely sleep terrified that those three starving dogs decide to have a midnight snack with their owners.