A repost from one of my friend's blogs... she is hilarious!!!

Tennis Anyone?

I have suddenly found myself on the @ss end of yet another breakup. And to avoid what happened the last time (i.e. lying on the couch, listening to Olivia Newton John, watching "Seventh Heaven," and getting fat), I decided to get out of the house, get active, and get into Brittany Spear's pre-baby­ body. And in a moment of tear-free clarity, I realized that tennis is just the way to accomplish these goals.

I announced my new tennis plans to some friends (first item on the list of things to do if you really want something to happen). Once you announce to your friends that you are going to do something, they will question you about it incessantly until you actually do it. See…I'm already thinking ahead of myself!

One very good friend, let's call her SchmAllison, passes me a number and says, "You should call this guy. He gives private lessons."

"Is he a good instructor?" I ask.

"I don't know," she replies.

"Does he play well?" I ask.

"He's smokin' hot and cheap," she says.

I was on it like a hobo on ham.

Soooo, I sent the obligatory intro email. "My name is April...I'm a friend of SchmAllison's…I'd like to play…yadda yadda yadda." Hours later, I receive an email back from him with his number and instructions to call his cell.

Ahh…it's a game already! Intriguing…and the ball's back in my court!

(HA, I made a tennis analogy without even thinking about it! I'm so in tune with tennis now it's scary!)

Making the call was a little more nerve-wracking, as I was sure he was going to be able to tell how bad of a tennis player I was from just hearing my voice. To make sure that didn't happen, I simply told him how bad of a tennis player I really am.

I took lessons my freshman year of college. On the third day of class I knocked myself out cold (with my racket, not my talent). Apparently on the follow-through of a forehand groundstroke you are supposed to make sure your arm stays straight. Instead, my elbow bent, which resulted in my clobbering myself square on the forehead with my racket. Seven minutes later I came to, flat on my back, staring at my classmates and my teacher, Kathy Parker. She handed me a drop/add slip and directed me to the clinic.

Perhaps telling this cat about the above TKO wasn't the best idea, but I felt I had to set some expectations. He didn't seem to be fazed by my confessions. Maybe he likes a challenge.

We settled on $25 an hour for lessons and the more I think about it, the more I love this idea. If this guy will put on white shorts and chase balls around with me for $25 an hour, what else will he do for $25 an hour? Rub my feet and tell me I'm smart and pretty? 'Cause I'd go broke for a little bit of that right now.

Of course, I had a myriad of questions for him, and he had answers for them all (I love a man with all the answers). And when I asked him who I would practice with (cause I'm pretty positive he's gonna want me to practice a lot!), he assured me he could round up some people at my level to play with. At this point in the conversation, I'm wondering where he's going to get a busload of school children and blind people. But hey, I guess I'm just gonna have to have faith.

After about 15 minutes of the question/answer game, I had the nerve to get to the one question that had been burning since I decided to take up the game:

Is there a certain level one has to reach before they are able to wear the cute tennis outfit? 'Cause those are darn cute!

I waited for my answer with bated breath. And it seemed like an eternity until he responded, "I've found the worse you play, the better you want to look."

I love this guy.

I spent the rest of the day happily getting ready for my lesson! Here's how that panned out:

12:30
Headed to Dick's Sporting Goods to pick out the perfect, super-cute tennis ensemble. Dropped $85.

1:00
Inquired to the friendly lady shopping next to me as to what item of clothing I would need to cover my ass.

2:16
Lunch—Salad with chicken, cucumbers, pine nuts, blueberries, flax seed, and balsamic vinaigrette

2:42
Got tennis racket out of laundry room storage

2:45
Magic-markered over swastikas on racket

3:00
Cut my nose on the sharp edges of the tennis ball pop top (don't ask)

3:06
Searched for socks with the fluffy balls on the heel

3:14
Danced around the living room in my hot new outfit to Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend"I know what you are thinking…You want me to go back and explain the 2:45 entry. (SIGH) Ok, I will…

When I was a teenager I lived down the street from some redneck family who had a lousy skinhead for a son. They had a garage sale and were selling a tennis racket cheap, so I bought it. When I got home I realized the son had "decorated" the racket and its case with his Anti-Semitic filth. Part of me wanted to take it back and demand my money back. The other part of me wanted to play street tennis with the neighbor. That part won. Anyway, I figured that I could puff paint or bedazzle over the offensive material and none would be the wiser.

Unfortunately, the racket ended up under my bed and stayed there until I moved here. As I pulled it out of the laundry room today, I noticed its offensive nature and decided that after the ridiculous stories and questions that I peppered my teacher with, it would be insane to show up with a racket covered in swastikas.

Which brings me to the moral of today's story: A magic marker and some CareBear stickers can fix most anything.

Wait… let me clarify here… I would never imply that anything could remedy the horrors of the Holocaust. Maybe a time machine that could shoot someone back in time to provide Hitler's father with a condom. What I meant to say is, all that aside, a magic marker and some CareBear stickers will cover the crap on my tennis racket long enough for me to save a little dough to buy a new racket that is free of offensive materials.

My birthday is August 10th in case any of you want to buy me a swastika-free racket.

My first lesson is Tuesday. I'll let you know how it goes!