I have not won many tennis matches in recent years. Not counting the one I sailed through a few weeks ago against a perfectly healthy woman who nevertheless seemed to want to call a taxi any time the ball bounced more than two feet away from her, my wins have numbered in the single digits. That is if you consider zero a single digit. But every summer, I re-up for league tennis. I play singles not only because I enjoy it more than doubles but because I am terrified of being yelled at by a partner. Generally, I count it as a major accomplishment if it takes me over an hour to lose two sets. I am far better at aiming low metaphorically than I am at aiming anywhere mildly strategic on court.
Some say it's all about positive mental attitude, and for that I am a veritable poster child. When I walk onto the court positive I am going to lose, I do. I often wonder what would happen if I actually believed I could win, but the thought just seems so preposterous, at least as far as tennis is concerned. I think perhaps there's more to it than just attitude. Determination can only get you so far; you need patience and some good planning. Just look at the Twinkies. And the Blackhawks.
Last night, I almost took a page from those modern day Cinderellas, biding my time in the face of adversity, setting myself up for a winner. I took a few extra breaths before I served, reminded myself not to curl my fingers in a death grip around the ball before I tossed it. I could feel the rhythm, my left arm extending up just as I brought my racket back with my right. The serve was clean and deep, and, without rushing, I gradually moved toward the net with each stroke, finding myself up there just in time to kill the desperate lob floating right into my strike zone. A can of corn, baseball fans; the point was within my grasp. Again, I took my time, pointed with my left hand as I brought my racket back, fantasized about the glory, and WHAM, I got it, hit that ball right out of the park. In tennis, baseball fans, that is not a good thing.
For a split second, I had taken my eye off the prize, and I couldn't finish the job. So close though. And if I use that one point, instead of the entire stinking match, as my metaphor for life right now, things might not be all that grim. Yesterday, I met with a career counselor of sorts, someone who can help folks with law degrees find careers that do not necessarily involve anything remotely related to law. Apparently, I got skills. I assured her I can solve problems (as long as they're not my own) and, yes, I can write about anything. Or nothing. Just read my blog. I have a law degree, which means, apparently, I have great capacity for analysis. Kind of like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. If you want a brain, all you need is a piece of pigskin saying you have one. And I have confidence. Let's just say after three years in the world of dating, you get pretty good at faking it.
So the building blocks are there, and all I need now is patience and a game plan. Apparently, networking is a process, something way more complex and time consuming than simply mentioning to one person here and there that you're looking for a job. Who knew? Maybe one day that new career will come floating my way, a can of corn. Maybe I'll even keep my eye on the ball the whole time, hit it out of the park in a good way. Positive mental attitude might eventually come in handy if I figure out how to spin it correctly.
Hockey season is officially over, and there is much to be done before July 15, the day when Twinkies and squiggle cupcakes will return triumphantly to the shelves. I need to pack up one house, find another, figure out how to fit nineteen years and lots of square feet worth of stuff into a relatively tiny box. I need to play a few more tennis matches, figure out how to set up more points and maybe even win a few. I need to learn to network, ask the right questions, talk to the right people. It's all a process, and the Twinkies will no doubt appear long before I close any deals or finish any points or find myself crashing through any glass ceilings.
It ain't over til it's over. It's nice when you don't have to take it all the way to game seven, but even if you do, there's always hope. As long as you never take your eye off the prize. The AARP swimsuit edition will have to wait.
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