talking of love ...

The new book is done! Ahhhhhh. Actually, all that "done" means is that it is off my desk until the editor gets back to me with the microsoft version of sticky notes stuck all over it. I figure I have about a week of official idleness. Then I'll get back to my default position of disguised idleness.

I was using some of my official free time to exercise this afternoon, moving up and down and around and around on my goose-stepping machine. I don't bring earphones to the Y. I enjoy watching TV with no sound. I like imagining what Dr Phil is talking about, or -- better yet -- trying to guess the secret words and phrases in game shows. Today Dr Phil was talking about the dangers of cell phones (I think -- though it'd be really funny if I thought he was talking about texting and he was actually talking about AIDS or homelessness) and I found myself watching tennis.

Wow, what drama. There was the aging star -- lots of fan loyalty, but there were a couple of wrinkles in her face, and her legs didn't have the same spring as the feisty funky youngster she was playing. The veteran was highly seeded, clearly a better player, but the kid was playing the match of her life and they were all tied going into the third set. I found myself rooting for the kid at first -- so naive, so cocky (if you can say that about a woman -- somehow vaginey just doesn't sound right), so hopeful. The veteran was tiring, and starting to look grumpy. Hurrah for youth, I thought.

And then the kid started to tick me off. Every point she won she made a fist and said, Yeah! Every point. Winner, unforced error, double fault -- Yeah! It was driving me crazy. The veteran shook her head gently at a dubious line call. The kid went, Yeah! And I changed loyalties like a gold digger. Now, instead of winded and grumpy, the veteran looked regal and self-possessed. Instead of funky, the kid looked like a brat.

Funny how we endow characters with the personality we desire. One youth/age stereotype -- fresh versus tired -- underwent a sea change in my mind to become an inversion of itself: callow versus experienced.

I left before the set ended. I don't like tennis enough to extend my workout. (I don't know the players either -- the woman in the picture is someone else.) I wonder who won. But not very hard. I have more important considerations in my idleness. Those feet of mine won't get up on the desk by themselves, you know. I have to raise them up there.