Amidst the hubbub swirling 'round the impending birthday party/blowout/rager, I'd forgotten that we're all heading to New York on Sunday for the week. Had I kept forgetting, I imagine myself passed out in my crumpled and soiled party dress -- signs of a great time -- and at two in the morning jerking up soberly panicking that I have not packed a thing. This kind of last-minute disorganization gives me heart palpitations. BUT it's all coming back to me now, this trip, the god-awful-early-morning flight, and I’ve now started the appropriate laundry needed for four people traveling across the country for a week, just in the nick of time. My Virgo soul is soothed.
Husband misses his home state and his family. Also, his birthday is coming and my plan was to get him tickets for the first week of the U.S. Open. One of my good friends in the broker industry had the hook up, killer box seats, which is now looking like a shaky and uncertain hook up much to my embarrassment and colossal dismay. SUCH A BROKER MOVE to promise a great hook up that isn't solid. So, we may or may not go to the Open. This sinks my heart because Husband really deserves to go. I really wanted this to happen for him. I'll just stay positive.
Have I told you that Husband is a tremendous tennis player? Not a casual-let's-knock-the-ball around weekend warrior, but a legitimate bad ass with a racket? He took up the sport late, in his teens, and sprinted as fast as he could towards making something of it. Natural athleticism and intelligence can get you somewhere fast, but high-level sports is a cruel master. The window to climb the ranks shrinks with every month one ages. With every second that ticks off the clock an athlete is robbed of speed and strength. Husband did earn a ranking on the east coast tour and sprint he did to go pro, but the window closed just as he had arrived. With all that talent and no money to be made playing, he was left to teach lessons at ritzy country clubs and murder decent players on the court regularly. When we lived in Orange County he played in a league. There is a running joke in adult tennis leagues that everyone declares themselves well under their actual level until they are caught and bumped up. The majority of players play at the average level even the players that dominated their college teams and almost went pro. Our last year in Orange County, Husband and his team went to the Nationals in Hawaii (!), where, if you remember, the matches were one-upped by Mother Nature and her 6.6 earthquake. His team didn't win, but Husband was good enough to get attention and when we moved back to L.A., he was bumped to the next level, a level that is the Siberia of levels. There's no one left to play in the leagues at this level. If he went one higher (the highest amateur level), he'd be playing the 20 year olds that just missed their window and pros that just retired from the circuit. He's in league limbo, but he plays regularly for fun with a great group of good players. His tennis hole is filled.
He misses the U.S. Open profoundly which he attended every year once he became a tennis junkie. He worked Open matches as a ball boy. He even has a Ball Boy Shining Moment: During a muggy NY night match, the stadium was packed (pre-Ashe stadium days) to watch Lendl vs. Agassi. Husband was working behind Lendl's service line, his back was to the wall just below a row of fans who were jammed into their seats. Agassi, the hometown favorite and long-haired darling, and Lendl traded strokes in an intense point until Lendl lobbed the ball to Agassi who in turn rocketed the ball back with an overhead smash. The ball blistered by Lendl, skipped off the line and shot up towards the first row of faces in the crowd. Instinctively Husband bounded up, shot up his hand like an outfielder and caught the ball awkwardly just inches from an older lady's face. The crowd went berserk. They cheered long enough to cause Agassi to break focus to see what was going on cross court. Agassi applauded on his racket then turned the racket around offering Husband the handle to play. The crowd went nuts again. And Husband's best friends, who were in the audience, hollered and yelled and pointed at Husband who was then the hometown favorite for that five minutes.
So, I wanted to get him back to the Open this year. I'm even more disappointed in my withering, near flaccid hook up when Husband says things like, "No, it's ok. It's no big deal." Uh, drive the knife in harder with your understanding, why don't you?
Back to the party: The planning is on point thanks in huge part to my good friend Ma who has championed the party even when I was unsure it could happen. All aspects are pretty much in place. Just need people to show up and have a good time. I'm having a bit of dress drama though. I did not attend my real senior prom and according to many reports, Dress Drama is a very big part of going to a prom. I had chosen a straight-laced strapless in a spectacular color, bright yellow satin, but now I'm not sure. The dress is great, but I don't know if I can dance well in it. As far as I'm concerned salsa dancing is a rough-n-tumble contact sport and I am hyper sensitive to the thought of exposing myself. It wouldn't be the end of the world if I did. What’s a little boobie among friends, but I mainly don't want to feel hemmed up and hesitant because I think it might happen. I'll try on one more dress tonight and if I'm not feeling it, I'll go with the yellow dress, maybe apply some modeling duct tape tricks and let the chips -- or front of my dress -- fall where they may.
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