Tennis, anyone?

Last week, my youngest daughter applied to college. In nine months she will move out of the room she's inhabited since birth and we will be empty nesters.

David and I have been anticipating this moment for years and spent a lot of time this summer anxiously (and excitedly) wondering what we're going to do with ourselves. Or more importantly, what we're going to do together. David doesn't ski and I don't play golf; he likes crossword puzzles, I like yoga. I suggested a salsa class, he said maybe we should get another dog.

One day in September I went out for a bike ride along the Hudson River and, as I passed by the beautiful clay tennis courts on 97th Street, I had my Eureka moment.

Tennis! I should learn to play tennis! 

David loves tennis and is very good at it. He was on his high school team (state champions!) and plays as often as he can. He's always looking for a partner.

I haven't played much since 1986 when I took a tennis PE class in college. The teacher was a tall, blond, preppy surfer named Brad (or Kip or Ted or Chip) and I was way more focused on what my hair looked like than how to hold a racquet. I was so awkward around him that every time I missed the ball or hit a bad shot - which was most of the time - I dissolved into nervous laughter and endless apologies. I decided I was terrible at tennis and gave it up.

Until now.

"Do you offer any classes for slightly out-of-shape middle-aged ladies who are looking for a healthy hobby?" I asked the pro at the Riverside Clay Tennis Association office.

"Absolutely," he said with a chuckle. "You can register online and I suggest you take a few lessons with Froi Silva. He'll get your blood pumping." Visions of Rafa Nadal danced in my head.  I raced home, logged on and booked 6 sessions.

A couple days later, I returned, suited up (more Chris Evert than Serena Williams) and ready to play. The pro walked me onto the court to meet Froi. Like Nadal, he was tan, toned, fit and ready.  Unlike Nadal, he was about 75 years old.  Given my experience with Brad (or Kip or Ted or Chip) I was relieved. I didn't need the distraction. I just wanted to play tennis.

Froi began the lesson by hitting what felt like 100 balls to me in rapid succession. Ten minutes into the one-hour class, I felt dizzy, drenched and defeated. Sensing my distress, Froi called me to the net.

"Patty, what I'm seeing is this," he said as he flapped his arms around like a dancing balloon man. "I need to see this," he said demonstrating a smooth, graceful forehand stroke.  "Not this," he said waving his racquet around again.

I think my tennis teacher just called me a spaz, I thought. "Spaz" was my unfortunate nickname in high school and I've always been self conscious about my long, skinny, flailing arms. I felt a wave of embarrassment, thinking back on my classes with the preppy surfer boy and the shame of feeling so uncoordinated on the court.

But instead of the giggly apology of 30 years ago, I listened. I focused. I got back into position, took a few deep breaths and hit some pretty good shots.

During each lesson, I got a little better. I wasn't as tired. I had more power. My form improved. And I loved that for one hour, I was completely present, thinking only about getting that ball over the net. Even at yoga class I can lose focus and start thinking about my to-do list during shavasana. But not on the court. Tennis had my full and undivided attention. And it was truly invigorating.

At our final class, Froi and I enjoyed a long rally where I was completely in the zone, hitting back and forth, back and forth in a steady rhythm. I felt like a real tennis player.  At the end, Froi met me at the net.

"That was better than good," he said. "That was very good."

I nearly cried.  For 30 years I've told myself - and anyone who ever asked me to play - that I'm bad at tennis, that I have hand-eye coordination challenges, that I'm a "spaz" or, less politely, that I suck. Now I was "better than good." And it felt good!

Not long after, David and I spent the weekend with friends who have a tennis court. For the first time in our 25 years together, we played as a mixed doubles team. And we won.

Radical Acceptance

Next week I'm turning 52 and I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that I'm "a woman in her early 50s." I don't have much gray hair, my menses hasn't paused and I still sunbathe like a teenager. I could probably pass for 42. But I'm not 42. I'm a fiftysomething. A quinguagenarian. Une femme d'un certain âge.

I thought turning 50 would be the catalyst for a full-blown midlife meltdown. But I was so busy planning a birthday trip to Brazil and starting a new job that I didn't have time for much self reflection. Or self pity. Also, our nest was still full and, except for my doctor telling me I had to get a colonoscopy, 50 just felt like another number.

But now I have one daughter in college and another applying this fall. They're getting ready to fly. I'm lowering my landing gear. They're on the runway preparing for takeoff while I'm beginning my descent. Instead of asking myself, What do I want to be when I grow up? I've started wondering, What do I want to do before I die? I used to have a wish list - run the NY Marathon, drive a convertible Mini Cooper, visit all seven continents, etc. Now I refer to it as my bucket list. It's subtle. But it's a definite shift.

Does this qualify as a midlife crisis? Maybe. But I prefer to think of it as middle-age clarity - the realization that this is not a dress rehearsal, that this is, as poet Mary Oliver writes, my "one wild and precious life." How am I going to spend my time left? What am I going to do with all the gifts I've been given? If I can keep the gratitude in my attitude, it's not terrifying or depressing at all; it's actually liberating and exhilarating. Instead of navigating the class 5 rapids of marriage, career and kids; of date nights and business trips and soccer schedules and appointments; of pre-school, after-school, middle school and high school; of part-time, flex-time, full-time and overtime; of summer camp and specialists and babysitters and nannies; of brown bag lunches, healthy snacks, and home-cooked dinners; of not only trying to have it all but do it all, like it all, and be good at it all; instead of holding my breath, I can exhale and float on calm waters knowing I made it through the big waves - not perfectly, not always gracefully, but at least upright.

My birthday wish is to slow those feelings of anxiety about the future and regrets about the past and stay rooted in the present, fully accepting that every choice, every job, every decision, every mistake got me to this place. 
And it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.