So said beneathe a sweatshirt.

It was a drizzley, grizzley day, but more than that, it was cold.  It’s the kind of day that would depress me to no end if it occurred in June, July or August, but somehow in September it seems to slip past me, escaping the abuse I would normally have for anything below 75 degrees and sunny.  And anyway, I spent some time last year defending the winter as something charming and novel, if not wholly enjoyable.  Who am I anymore?  Post-California winters have done less to damage my spirit.  And in fact today, once I got over the initial shock of the drop in temperature, once I resigned myself to a long, hot shower and then curled up on the couch with a blanket, I caught myself looking forward to winter, as if it were my  new guilty pleasure.  Who am I anymore?  I’m looking forward to the day that our landlord turns the heat on and my bedroom turns back into an incubator.  I’m looking forward to a scarf and mittens.  Who am I anymore?  This summer was too short, but it was hot enough to make everyone else complain, which means that it was perfect.  I’m done complaining about the weather. Heaven will be 85 degrees with a hot breeze–I’m content to wait for that.

Tennis the menace, and other sports puns.

There’s no need to say it in any clever way.  This past summer I began playing tennis.  I’m not great, but I’m not terrible, and I think I have potential.  I say this because I was something of a star athlete before I suppressed my athletic side sophomore year of high school.  From age 5 to 15 I was a formidable presence in the world of tee-ball, hardball, softball, basketball, and even volleyball.  I enjoyed it for about a decade, and then willfully gave it up to pursue things more creative.  I guess at the time I thought that these two parts of me, the athletic and the artistic, could not peacefully coexist.

But lately I’ve been allowing myself to get back in touch with my sporty side.  This weekend, for example, you would not believe how much sports I watched!  I watched parts of the US Open, college football, pro baseball, and even a commentary show on the Packers training camp.  Granted, these were just parts, and I probably would have chosen something else if I had the option.  And I’m sure that part of the thrill was watching it on my parents’ new big screen TV (for those of you who know my family, you know that the purchase of this TV was a historical moment long in the making) but I think that part of me actually enjoyed it.  Part of me was caught up in that spirit of competition that I thought had only settled on me momentarily during the 16 days of the BeijingOlympics.

I’m not the same girl I was between ages 5 and 15, obviously, but I’m not the same woman I was between ages 15 and 25 either. So maybe I’m a sports fan again.  I’m not saying I’m about to trade in my pens and paint and paper for a subscription to Sports Illustrated, but if I get the urge to join a tennis club or arrange my plans around the Packers schedule, I’m not going to fight it.  ‘Sall I’m sayin’. (That seems like something a sporty person would close a blog with.)

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    Breena Wiederhoeft
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