What YOU think of me is YOUR business

I’ve blogged about tennis failures – things like how I’ve let my emotions get the best of me, or how my game has suffered due to a “crisis of confidence.” But I also want to pass along what I’m learning about how to overcome these problems.  My tennis journey may be a long one, but it’s not so different from other roads I’ve traveled.  In fact, there are days when my “tennis journey” and “the midlife passage” have a lot in common.  And I don’t just mean the effects of gravity.


I reached a point where I felt as though I had invested so much time and money in learning a sport, watching the pros play it, buying trendy clothes for it, and even taking some “tennis vacations,” that I felt I deserved to be playing better than I was.  I held myself to a higher standard than I should have and was constantly evaluating my improvement against better players.  As a result, I was always coming up short.  By my own standards, I was never going to measure up, never going to get out of my USTA 3.0 “rut.”

But at the same time as I was tired of not improving, I felt locked in: I had put so much of myself into tennis, for so long, that I didn’t want to quit.  I was addicted to an activity that wasn’t going anywhere for me.  Aside from a bit of exercise and socializing on the court, I couldn’t point to many positives about my involvement with tennis – I wasn’t having fun, and I could have gotten a better workout by going to the gym.


So what started my turnaround?  Well, I was complaining about my frustration  with poor play in matches and my irritating “voice of judgment” to Coach Alan Margot.  He told me, “You can’t silence the voice, but tell it to quiet down.  When you worry about what other people are the court are thinking about you, remind yourself, as if you were speaking to them: ‘What YOU think of me is YOUR business.’”

This seems simple, but it’s deep.  For years I’ve taken ownership of how others perceive me on the tennis court, and more generally, in most other sectors of my life.  Since I’d rather please people, I end up pressuring myself to make a better shot than I’m capable of, let my partner choose when she wants to serve and whether she wants the ad or deuce side in doubles, try for a heroic poach when simply getting the ball back over the net would be good enough.  Outside of tennis, I rearrange my own schedule to accommodate an appointment that works better for my husband, or I ask a friend to give me a ride so my son can use my car.

At the end of the day, however, I don’t feel satisfied about setting aside my best interests in order to make others happier.  I’m not sure they even notice my efforts, to tell you the truth.  But it’s helpful to acknowledge that what someone else thinks of me is his or her responsibility, not mine.  It doesn’t give me license to be obnoxious — rather, it reduces a burden I shouldn’t be carrying anyway.

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Warts and all


Lately I’ve been obsessed by a subject we don’t like to discuss in polite circles.  And yet it’s a common problem: the lowly plantar wart.  Even the name “wart” is disgusting – no one wants to admit they have ever had one themselves.  Well maybe their kids did, but they didn’t.  The virus that causes warts is HPV, and even though it’s different from herpes or HIV, talking about it is almost as taboo as mentioning a sexually transmitted disease.

Yet I have a plantar wart on the ball of my foot.  It has been with me in some form or another for the past eighteen years.  As best I can tell, I picked up the virus from a pool deck or locker room while I was pregnant with our youngest child during the summer of 1995.  The only relief I could get from the heat and excess weight I was hoisting that summer was to swim – well, to move up and down the pool with a kickboard.



As much as I love my son and the time I spent being pregnant with him, I don’t care for this reminder of my pregnancy.  But my body seems to delight in the wart virus.  I’ve lost track of all the times I’ve destroyed the outer manifestations of its presence.   Liquid nitrogen — freezing the wart.  Salicylic acid — killing it slowly with OTC remedies.  Lasers — involving brief pain but multiple treatments.  Mini-surgery — carving it out of my foot.  And as a last resort, injections of bleomycin — an anti-cancer drug that kills all cells in its path.

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