When Butch and I were in our first year of marriage I was somehow able to get him out of the house for fun occasionally. One of the things I convinced him to do was to play tennis with me. Being a hard-working, real live country boy, he had never played it before. I, being a true city girl, had played tennis most of my life. I wasn't bad. And I loved it. So when he agreed to learn how to play, I was surprised and delighted.
At the time, we lived in a small town in Texas, northeast of Dallas, where it is always hot as Hades. And humid. And HOT. So, one dresses accordingly, meaning: as little clothing as possible, just this side of getting arrested for indecent exposure.
Here I was, in my 40's - tan, fit, in shorts and tank top, looking mighty cute with my bouncy ponytail. And then here comes my manly man Butch, dressed for ... what in the hey? Picture this if you will, across the court from me on this fine, warm, sunny, June morning: my tennis partner dressed in Wrangler jeans, boots, wife-beater t-shirt and cowboy hat, complete with cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I rose up out of my tennis-ready crouch and stared open-mouthed at this dazzling wonder before me. "Seriously? He's going to play tennis in jeans and boots? He'll die from this heat but if I can stop belly-laughing, he'll be easier to beat, so ... game on!"
I did not take into account this man's physical fitness from years of very hard work, hauling hay and building houses in Texas summers. I did not yet know about his innate athletic prowess. All I knew at the time was that he looked hilarious and I was about to sweep the court with him.
Even though he did manage to hit the cigarette in his mouth with his own tennis racket, sending said cigarette flying, he did pretty well that first day. I was handicapped by the fact that I couldn't stop laughing at what he looked like and, I discovered, he was a quick learner.
Fast forward one month. It is now July and even hotter. We have played tennis about twice a week and he has improved greatly, alarmingly even. He has also progressed in his tennis attire to actual shorts and tennis shoes, neither of which he owned and had to be sought out and purchased, with much grumbling and covertness. He reluctantly left the cowboy hat at home but kept the ever-present dangling cigarette.
Again, behold the spectacle before me. The top half of this man tanned and muscle-y from years of working in the sun; bottom half stark white and skinny, with two perfect chicken legs sticking out of the shorts and above the dorky old man socks. Again, me laughing my butt off and again, underestimating this man.
He whipped my butt that day as if in an effort to make up for the less than usual manly appearance.
Fast forward another month. It is now August, so hot the tar is melting on the streets. Butch is across from me on the tennis court, legs tan, looking not so chicken-like, comfortable in his shorts, no cigarette, crouching with racket in hand, seriously ready to flay me. Which he did. Every time we played.
I'm not laughing anymore.
In two short months this man went from never holding a tennis racket to giving me, a life-long tennis player, a sound beating on the court, every weekend. How? How could this be?? I know the whole point of our playing tennis together is (supposedly) to have fun and get some exercise, but I don't like losing. And I shouldn't be losing to this chicken-legged country boy who's never played tennis before. He's not nearly as cute as I am. And he's smug about it. And laughing! At me!
Well now.
Just as I was coming up with some nefarious plan to knock his smug self down a few notches, lo and behold, who is driving by but his two beloved 20-something nephews who adore their cowboy/carpenter uncle and have never once had the thought that Butch might lower himself by playing tennis or EVER wearing shorts or tennis shoes! Egads! We could hear the guffaws two blocks away. Butch tried to run and hide but it was too late! He'd been seen! Oh no! His image destroyed! Sacre Bleu!
He sticks a manly cigarette in his mouth, saunters casually over to his nephews' car and sheepishly says, as if he's let hoards of manly men down, "Heh, heh, heh. Hey boys."
The smugness is gone.
I am again laughing.
I feel much better now.
Order has been restored. ;)
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