Got a new band put on the watch yesterday. The old one had curled up from years clasping my wrist. Looked all right on the outside, but inside it was worn and stained, the leather disintegrating under the surface. Looks horrid, Cal said, cracked and scaly. It reminded me of my legs. Old man’s legs with papery skin. Running about a tennis court doesn’t result in fresher, younger epidermis. Not to look at anyway; it must be doing something for the muscles, surely.
Played a couple of mixed doubles matches, standing in for a chap who’s injured. Last week the opposing team were all so young you could see the outline of school uniforms on the tennis kit. I did all right for someone giving away multiple decades; the sets were even but we lost by a few games on count-back. It not being my team, I didn’t care much as long as I played OK, which I did.
Afterwards there is supper. A couple of Men’s teams were outside singeing sausages and drinking beer. We were inside with cheese and crackers and dips and grapes and lemonade. Someone’s mum put this together, I thought.
They were nice kids, and not quite as young as I thought. Three in first year uni and one in second. He was the captain. I asked what they were studying and one, a girl built like a willow-wand but with the heaviest serve of all the women, grinned and challenged me to guess. I got two straight off and one with a bit of help. Smartarse. But I could not guess Twiggy.
Politics, she said. How depressing, I thought, but didn’t say.
Got home and limped to the shower. Three close sets on a Thursday night. Jeez.
Horizontal at last, but legs aching so much I couldn’t sleep. Got up and did a few laps inside the house, trying to avoid cramp. Kept the lights low, to fool myself I was a few laps away from Lethe. Clocks grinned in the gloom as I passed them. Reckon they were mocking me. Eventually I took half a pill. Fuck it, I need sleep.
A Sunday morning game with a mate has become a ritual. Sometimes I manage to beat him, mostly he out-runs me. Younger legs and years of playing competition squash. He’s an executive. Knows how to get the job done. Last week it was a war of attrition; at six-all we agreed on an honourable draw. This week he rolled over me. My body was still grizzling about the mixed doubles. Recovery times lengthen, relentlessly, until you tear or break something and it ends. Now that’s depressing.
But I love it (though less when I’m crap, like Sunday).
When I got home the boy asked, could you not play next week as it’s my birthday?
There was a hesitation. I was thinking, the party is not until the afternoon, what’s the problem. A childless moment that passed. Sure, I said. We’re having pancakes, he said. Excellent.
It’s a significant birthday, though he won’t let us talk about the obvious. Thirteen. That last syllable serves up all kinds of complications, and soon he won’t want to spend time with his boring oldies. Tempus fugit says the smug new band on my watch. Shut the fuck up, I snarl. But somewhere I feel hourglass tears falling.
Springboard provided by pinklightsabre
Time flies
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My daughter has had three of those ‘teen’ birthdays, and she seems no less interested in hanging out with us than she ever did. She’s busier now, but come Saturday morning, it’s always “what are we doing today?”
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That is encouraging. And I think I know it — it’s not like it’s compulsory to turn into a wereteen; more my fear, having not really experienced any connection at all with either parent after primary school.
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Excellent, excellent writing. Great use of words and imagery. I have similar feelings, though it’s about running which also produces achy legs. Sometimes I am surprised by how old I am. Oh heck. I’m lying. I’m ALWAYS surprised when I realize my age.
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Thanks Dawn. That’s kind of good, isn’t it? To be surprised at how the odometer has crept up to this unlikely total? Long may you run.
Cheers, Bruce.
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“Unlikely total.” See? You’re doing that word thing again. 🙂
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It’s a dreadful habit. Should take something for it I guess.
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I don’t play tennis. I stopped wearing a watch earlier this year. At 27 and 22, mine’s significant pancake-breakfast birthdays at home are long behind them. So, my takeaway? You me same same, VC. Gather ye rosebuds…
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Aye, aye. And slow enough to smell ’em, too.
Why bare wristed, Vic? Have you transitioned to an unstructured time phase?
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We’ll call the transition more fantasy than reality just yet but progress is progress, eh? (Recently I had two pocket watches repaired, one passed down from a grandfather and the other from a great grandfather. Almost makes me want to transition to vest-wearing, but I guess that’ll remain in the fantasy column for now as well.)
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There are some becoming leather vests around, particularly around the two-wheeler fraternity. Perhaps one of those?
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Hey man, smashing a tennis ball around a court! Who cares what your legs look like when they can do that? Singeing sausages got my quills quivering! Nothing’s guaranteed and all we have is this moment so slurp it all up.
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You sound like a very sensible animal that knows where its quills are.
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You are wise beyond your quills Hank.
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Beautifully written!
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Thank you.
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