Get yer sweat on
Did anyone else spend at least part of their Sunday leaping from the couch while maniacally screaming at their television set?
I watched sports for a better part of this weekend—the second stage of le Tour and the Wimbledon finals—and all I can say is that I was in freakin’ heaven! Give me tennis or give me death. In my next life, I’m coming back as a professional tennis player. Look for me.
In case you missed it, the Williams sisters put on a good show Saturday and even though I usually root for the underdog, I sorta like watching Venus school her little sister. But the real action was in the men’s final today. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal—two of the most incredible athletes to ever meet on the grass—hammered it out on Centre Court and after more than four-and-a-half hours of play time, two rain delays, two tie-breaks, an extended fifth set, and a world record number of wedgie-fixes (more on this in a sec), Nadal took that sixth win out from under Federer’s tired feet. The whole thing was so brilliant, so thrilling, so emotionally overwhelming, that I thought for a moment that there was no reason to ever have sex again. The afterglow was that good. I almost needed a cigarette.
I was rooting for Federer, so sad. Nadal is fine but about that wedgie thing: His habit of pulling his underwear from his ass before every play is quite rather…unappealing. (Sam says it makes him “seem stinky.”) I understand his problem, however. He’s got a really round butt, like someone else I know—ahem!—and the unmentionables have a way of sliding over the butt cheeks and into the crevasse, if you will. It’s quite problematic. It’s uncomfortable, as Rafa would probably agree. It totally sucks, to be honest. So, when I’m making my rounds in the pro-circuit on my next go-around, I’ll either wear thong underwear or just skip it altogether. I think Rafa should do the same.
In other sports news, 41-year old Dara Torres is setting records, dammit! She makes getting older seem less daunting. She’s paving some roads for us older broads, isn’t she? That or setting the bar impossibly high. But she sure does personify the new meaning of what it is to be in your forties and for that, I think we should all be grateful. Certainly forty is very different for women of my generation than what it was for our mothers.
And thanks to the news of her accomplishments today, I rolled my absurdly round ass off the couch and went for the run I was going to blow off in lieu of a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I’m super glad I didn’t have that cigarette.
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