Wimbledon whimsy.
The summer I turned eleven, I decided I wanted to be a tennis player like Arantxa Sanchez Vicario. I also thought that her height of five feet, six and one half inches was the ideal stature for me.
Nevermind that I didn't even own a racket. Or that all previous training was geared towards the gracefulness of a pirouette rather than the explosive twists and turns required of a good forehand. Even my soccer background would fail me. My body was more attuned to eye-foot coordination than any type of eye-hand coordinated efforts. And by the way, if you're ever having a bad day, find me playing volleyball and you'll feel loads better. My digs resemble something akin to a slide tackle. (Is one issued red cards in volleyball?)
But at eleven years old, the world was my oyster. Five-six-and-a-half was an achievable height; Wimbledon, a worthy goal. My training plan: "learn as you go." Realizing I would never make it as a child actor in the rural wilds of central Pennsylvania, I saved money from chores and babysitting, added it to the small pile of cash leftover from my birthday, and convinced my mother to drive me to the local "we have everything you could ever need" store for a racquet. It was around twenty bucks, blue, and Wilson. With a matching cover, of course. The tennis balls put me over my budget, so I had to wait to get those until I saved up my money again. I had nobody to drive me to the tennis courts across town, and so my back country lane served as a training ground. I found a friend who also had a tennis racquet, though looking back, I recall it looking odd; turns out it was actually for racquetball. But we knew no better, so we'd volley--or at least attempt to--a ball back and forth. Keep in mind that as I was dreaming of center court at Wimbledon, I was also still firmly rooted in my obsession with horses. Though the details were still fuzzy, that summer, I was gameplanning how to balance a burgeoning tennis career with my duties as horse owner. Of course, there would be stable hands to handle most of the behind-the-scenes work with the horses, but I would still be a hands-on type of horse owner. I did love mucking out stalls! (It was the best part about visiting my friend who had a horse--feed Buffy, brush her down, muck out stalls! Perfect day! Friends were not allowed to ride the horse, otherwise that would have been the best part. Alas, the hazards of owning a retired barrel racer. That horse thought everything was a race. Sigh.) Oh--and on top of all this, I was also going to be an actress. How else would I afford all of the horses I was going to own?! And because actors don't always make a lot of money, I was going to supplement my income with my art. (Duh.)
At eleven, I had the world figured out. All dreams could be concurrent. I'd make my money, get my stuff, and have enough left over to save the world. I didn't necessarily understand things like hard work and dedication, because at that age, I didn't have to. Nearly twenty years later, I like to think I have a better idea about what goes into hard work. My realization or grand epiphany is that I've spent a long time working hard towards things that, in the end, I hate. Things that don't capture my imagination. Things considered sensible by the masses. Safe things. I chose what I deemed as a practical undergrad degree (humanities); then when I realized it wasn't actually all that practical after all, I took advantage of the MBA my company paid for. I learned some interesting things in those business courses, but nothing that held my attention or engaged my passions. Business: it bores me. But there are people out there that seem to really love business--like my friend KK. When we go browsing at a bookstore, she heads straight for the business aisle. (Puke, puke; blah, blah.) In dinner conversation, she randomly spouts various facts and figures on the current state of the economy. (More wine, please.) I am grateful for people like KK, because she really loves business and economics and finance. Me? Not so much.
Well...let me rephrase or reshape that statement: I am interested in business given the right environment. Give me a space in business where I'm working with art, theater, writing, fashion, travel, where I can be involved in the fight against human trafficking...that would be my perfect storm in a totally good way. Because those are areas of interest for me. Those are things I get excited talking about. Passions. I guess that I am now on a mission to recover lost dreams. With the once-loud buzz and desire of fitting in with the "cool kids" faded to a dim hum, what do I like? What's worth a fight?
In life, what is set aside in interests of fitting in?--of doing what others expect of you? What gets lost in an effort to find oneself? Are those childhood dreams still intact? What might those dreams look like a bit more grown up? If the flowers of the dream are gone, does the root of the thing still exist? If words of others had not swayed resolve and altered one's course...what would that be like? What would today be if yesterday was different? What would tomorrow look like if one took on the "learn as you go" philosophy?
I want to get back to that place of Wimbledon whimsy. It was a place where I moved forward to tackle a problem rather than analyzing and scrutinizing every angle, second-guessing every potential decision to be made. In tennis, the player has a split decision to react. Hours upon hours of practice make that reaction instinctive. Somewhere in the reaction is the echo of what has been practiced. I vote to practice whimsy. Sometimes you'll fall flat on your face, while other times you'll fly. You know what makes falling bearable?--The fact that you had the courage to act.
"The thrill of victory; the agony of defeat."
Nevermind that I didn't even own a racket. Or that all previous training was geared towards the gracefulness of a pirouette rather than the explosive twists and turns required of a good forehand. Even my soccer background would fail me. My body was more attuned to eye-foot coordination than any type of eye-hand coordinated efforts. And by the way, if you're ever having a bad day, find me playing volleyball and you'll feel loads better. My digs resemble something akin to a slide tackle. (Is one issued red cards in volleyball?)
But at eleven years old, the world was my oyster. Five-six-and-a-half was an achievable height; Wimbledon, a worthy goal. My training plan: "learn as you go." Realizing I would never make it as a child actor in the rural wilds of central Pennsylvania, I saved money from chores and babysitting, added it to the small pile of cash leftover from my birthday, and convinced my mother to drive me to the local "we have everything you could ever need" store for a racquet. It was around twenty bucks, blue, and Wilson. With a matching cover, of course. The tennis balls put me over my budget, so I had to wait to get those until I saved up my money again. I had nobody to drive me to the tennis courts across town, and so my back country lane served as a training ground. I found a friend who also had a tennis racquet, though looking back, I recall it looking odd; turns out it was actually for racquetball. But we knew no better, so we'd volley--or at least attempt to--a ball back and forth. Keep in mind that as I was dreaming of center court at Wimbledon, I was also still firmly rooted in my obsession with horses. Though the details were still fuzzy, that summer, I was gameplanning how to balance a burgeoning tennis career with my duties as horse owner. Of course, there would be stable hands to handle most of the behind-the-scenes work with the horses, but I would still be a hands-on type of horse owner. I did love mucking out stalls! (It was the best part about visiting my friend who had a horse--feed Buffy, brush her down, muck out stalls! Perfect day! Friends were not allowed to ride the horse, otherwise that would have been the best part. Alas, the hazards of owning a retired barrel racer. That horse thought everything was a race. Sigh.) Oh--and on top of all this, I was also going to be an actress. How else would I afford all of the horses I was going to own?! And because actors don't always make a lot of money, I was going to supplement my income with my art. (Duh.)
At eleven, I had the world figured out. All dreams could be concurrent. I'd make my money, get my stuff, and have enough left over to save the world. I didn't necessarily understand things like hard work and dedication, because at that age, I didn't have to. Nearly twenty years later, I like to think I have a better idea about what goes into hard work. My realization or grand epiphany is that I've spent a long time working hard towards things that, in the end, I hate. Things that don't capture my imagination. Things considered sensible by the masses. Safe things. I chose what I deemed as a practical undergrad degree (humanities); then when I realized it wasn't actually all that practical after all, I took advantage of the MBA my company paid for. I learned some interesting things in those business courses, but nothing that held my attention or engaged my passions. Business: it bores me. But there are people out there that seem to really love business--like my friend KK. When we go browsing at a bookstore, she heads straight for the business aisle. (Puke, puke; blah, blah.) In dinner conversation, she randomly spouts various facts and figures on the current state of the economy. (More wine, please.) I am grateful for people like KK, because she really loves business and economics and finance. Me? Not so much.
Well...let me rephrase or reshape that statement: I am interested in business given the right environment. Give me a space in business where I'm working with art, theater, writing, fashion, travel, where I can be involved in the fight against human trafficking...that would be my perfect storm in a totally good way. Because those are areas of interest for me. Those are things I get excited talking about. Passions. I guess that I am now on a mission to recover lost dreams. With the once-loud buzz and desire of fitting in with the "cool kids" faded to a dim hum, what do I like? What's worth a fight?
In life, what is set aside in interests of fitting in?--of doing what others expect of you? What gets lost in an effort to find oneself? Are those childhood dreams still intact? What might those dreams look like a bit more grown up? If the flowers of the dream are gone, does the root of the thing still exist? If words of others had not swayed resolve and altered one's course...what would that be like? What would today be if yesterday was different? What would tomorrow look like if one took on the "learn as you go" philosophy?
I want to get back to that place of Wimbledon whimsy. It was a place where I moved forward to tackle a problem rather than analyzing and scrutinizing every angle, second-guessing every potential decision to be made. In tennis, the player has a split decision to react. Hours upon hours of practice make that reaction instinctive. Somewhere in the reaction is the echo of what has been practiced. I vote to practice whimsy. Sometimes you'll fall flat on your face, while other times you'll fly. You know what makes falling bearable?--The fact that you had the courage to act.
My tennis hero did not win at Wimbledon that year. She lost to Steffi Graf in the final.
"The thrill of victory; the agony of defeat."
Some dreams you realize you're okay giving up. I no longer have aspirations of being a tennis player, and I've given up on the idea of the "ideal height." (High heels are a very convenient thing in this case.) Do I still want to catch a match at Wimbledon? Absolutely. I already have a date in mind. Maybe I'll even where heels. :)
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