I’ve always wanted a cute tennis outfit. One with a white skirt that shows off my tennis tan. The problem is that I’ve never known how to play tennis. Or had a partner to play with.
After nearly 15 years of marriage, my husband and I have yet to find a sport we can play together. Nate prefers football, basketball, or softball (and laughed at me when I showed up to our co-ed game in a pair of jeans and flip-flops—sue me), while I have a terrible record as an athlete and keep fit as a runner. We sign up for races together in an attempt at quality time, but due to work schedules and speed preference, we never run as a duo.
I started to think that perhaps tennis could be as much about long-term fitness and partnership as aesthetics. My neighbor is a silver fox that plays every day with his equally attractive senior partner. They seem happy, healthy, and positively glowing when they return from the court.
I wanted that—and the tennis outfit. So, we learned to play tennis in hopes of scoring a win for our health and the longevity of our relationship.
Our first foray into tennising was a disaster.
Aside from the free racket that I found on our neighborhood Facebook page, I did nothing to prepare. Unlike running, gear is important in tennis. How was I supposed to know you’re supposed to wear an ensemble with pockets so that I could have a place to put the balls? Instead, I had to shove them into my already-snug sports bra. (However, I looked stacked.)
I also failed to learn the rules. Tennis has a scoring system that’s believed to be rooted in Medieval French and is composed of points, games, and sets that makes absolutely zero sense to a regular human who went through the public school system. I expended most of my energy trying to calculate why zero is “love” and “deuce” is a tie of 40-40, which left very little steam for me to win the game. Nate—who’d taken lessons as a kid—was superior to me, and despite never having been competitive with him, I left the court frustrated by my failures.
The only redeeming part of our match was that the tennis club sold beer. I didn’t care that it was breakfast time—we sat outside on the fancy rocking chairs and sipped a post-game Miller Lite. Clearly, I needed a better game plan if tennis was going to be my retirement exercise.
So, I decided to take a lesson.
The next steamy Saturday afternoon, I dragged myself out of bed with the promise of a watery beer and a new tennis skirt. When my instructor, David, asked what my goal was, I told him that I sincerely wanted to grow up to be a senior tennis fanatic with the glow to match, I wanted to improve enough to buy a cute outfit, and I’d also like to beat my husband in a game. David patiently tossed about 10,000 balls at me in an effort to teach me the proper technique for driving them across the court. I casually asked him how long he’d been teaching. “Twenty years,” he replied. I then inquired how many times he’d been hit by a first-time player. “Not once in 20 years,” he quipped as my ball narrowly missed his earlobe.
We spent an hour working on my forehand and backhand until I was too sore to backcomb my hair but not too sore to lift my post-game Miller Lite.
The following week, my husband and I played a game that felt more evenly matched. I understood how to hit the ball with decent force and it sailed back and forth a handful of times without flying into the adjoining court. We were competitive but it felt healthy. I’d had a terrible day, and—in fact—it felt really terrific to take a forceful swing with my racket, even if we were still pretty terrible.
Throughout the summer months, we steadily practiced our game.
I also watched Wimbledon and a handful of tennis documentaries on Netflix so I felt that I was truly brushing up on my skills. Tennis proved to be a great exercise that Nate and I could do together, and we found that it would often replace our evening TV watching or movie going. It was a healthy new habit that we could share—and gave us a dose of healthy competition, too. I can see it now: me and Nate as sinewy septuagenarians, toting our rackets to the club, our silver hair blowing in the breeze.
One day, a friend emailed to see if I could grab drinks that evening. I’d scheduled a court and planned to play tennis. When I declined plans, she replied, “I love that you play tennis—it sounds so chic!” I’d arrived.
That week I received my preppy white Lululemon skirt in the mail with a matching hat. I felt like our skills on and off the court earned me that outfit—along with a cold Miller Lite.
Anne Roderique-Jones is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared in Vogue, Marie Claire, Southern Living, Town & Country, and Condé Nast Traveler. Twitter: @AnnieMarie_ Instagram: @AnnieMarie_
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