It ain't over til it's over.
Jul. 21st, 2003 03:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raybearI'm ridiculously sleepy. I can't believe I have to come back to the damn office this evening for a training session. The upside is that I will hopefully have volunteers to do some of my grunt work. So, you know, I can sit online and not worry about the tasks getting done because the person not getting paid will do them. Though to my credit, whenever I have a volunteer or intern working for me, I become way more productive myself, so it's a good motivator.
I really just want to go home and stretch out on my couch and watch a movie. Or episodes of While You Were Out. Then maybe eat a few oreos and pass out at 10 pm. Mmmmm, sexy. I suppose my fantasy can still come true later on in the evening, after work. After an extremely socially stimulating weekend that started Thursday evening and continued all the way until nearly midnight last night, I'm in dire need of some more peace and quiet. Last night I had a good dose before bedtime, but it's not quite a full recharge.
This entry served no purpose except to help keep me awake another five minutes. So I will tell a random story. Warning: contains tennis jargon and mid-90's references that are probably hugely obsolete and forgotten by most others.
I knew precious little about tennis prior to the summer of 1993 when I visited London, including a day trip to the lawns of Wimbledon on the day of the women's final. I maybe had as much knowledge of tennis as any other random sport -- knew some names and faces and events and occasionally some of the drama, including the recent stabbing of Monica Seles. It was so recent at that point that she was still in the profiles section of the Wimbledon program.
We had tickets for Court One where the teen girls were playing. I watched them for all of five minutes, and now wish I'd at least bothered to jot down their names because I might have been watching some future big name, like that horrible Hingis or Kournikova. Actually, maybe it's just as well I don't remember.
Most of our day was spent walking around the grounds, watching the women's finals on the big screen while sitting on the lawn. Steffi Graf was losing, and I sort of wasn't sure if I liked her at that point. We wandered to the back courts and ended up following this small crowd who'd gathered around two spots. One had Jim Courier playing with a Stefan Edberg lookalike, the other had Pete Sampras playing with a hitting partner. I was drawn to Jim and his nerdy nature. I immediately hated Sampras with no discernible reason. My teacher/chaperone confirmed it when she announced to us that he was currently ranked number one but had never one a major tournament. That hardly seemed fair to me, and I suspected some bullshit number crunching (that would later get confirmed the next year when everyone and their mom's tennis coach started complaining about those damn clay courters). My teacher then went on and on about how sexy and attractive Sampras was and how graceful he was as a player.
She's leaning in towards my ear, saying these things, and I'm transfixed by his ape-like loping around and annoying cockyness. And I swear to god, as she went on and on about how hot he is, I thought, "I don't know if I'm cut out for this having sex with men thing. I don't understand why people think THAT is attractive."
I still hate Sampras. But I do understand wanting to have sex with men.
Epilogue: My teacher/chaperone made us leave early so we could get dinner in the city with the bigger group, telling us the rest of the match would be over soon. Seconds after we caught a cab, Jana Novotna started choking and Graf came back to win. I can't believe I missed Novotna crying on the Duchess's shoulder.
I really just want to go home and stretch out on my couch and watch a movie. Or episodes of While You Were Out. Then maybe eat a few oreos and pass out at 10 pm. Mmmmm, sexy. I suppose my fantasy can still come true later on in the evening, after work. After an extremely socially stimulating weekend that started Thursday evening and continued all the way until nearly midnight last night, I'm in dire need of some more peace and quiet. Last night I had a good dose before bedtime, but it's not quite a full recharge.
This entry served no purpose except to help keep me awake another five minutes. So I will tell a random story. Warning: contains tennis jargon and mid-90's references that are probably hugely obsolete and forgotten by most others.
I knew precious little about tennis prior to the summer of 1993 when I visited London, including a day trip to the lawns of Wimbledon on the day of the women's final. I maybe had as much knowledge of tennis as any other random sport -- knew some names and faces and events and occasionally some of the drama, including the recent stabbing of Monica Seles. It was so recent at that point that she was still in the profiles section of the Wimbledon program.
We had tickets for Court One where the teen girls were playing. I watched them for all of five minutes, and now wish I'd at least bothered to jot down their names because I might have been watching some future big name, like that horrible Hingis or Kournikova. Actually, maybe it's just as well I don't remember.
Most of our day was spent walking around the grounds, watching the women's finals on the big screen while sitting on the lawn. Steffi Graf was losing, and I sort of wasn't sure if I liked her at that point. We wandered to the back courts and ended up following this small crowd who'd gathered around two spots. One had Jim Courier playing with a Stefan Edberg lookalike, the other had Pete Sampras playing with a hitting partner. I was drawn to Jim and his nerdy nature. I immediately hated Sampras with no discernible reason. My teacher/chaperone confirmed it when she announced to us that he was currently ranked number one but had never one a major tournament. That hardly seemed fair to me, and I suspected some bullshit number crunching (that would later get confirmed the next year when everyone and their mom's tennis coach started complaining about those damn clay courters). My teacher then went on and on about how sexy and attractive Sampras was and how graceful he was as a player.
She's leaning in towards my ear, saying these things, and I'm transfixed by his ape-like loping around and annoying cockyness. And I swear to god, as she went on and on about how hot he is, I thought, "I don't know if I'm cut out for this having sex with men thing. I don't understand why people think THAT is attractive."
I still hate Sampras. But I do understand wanting to have sex with men.
Epilogue: My teacher/chaperone made us leave early so we could get dinner in the city with the bigger group, telling us the rest of the match would be over soon. Seconds after we caught a cab, Jana Novotna started choking and Graf came back to win. I can't believe I missed Novotna crying on the Duchess's shoulder.
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no subject
Date: 2003-07-21 01:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-21 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-21 04:10 pm (UTC)Seriously though, I've found that most people tend to have a strong preference for either WYWO or Trading Spaces, but not necessarily both. I end up getting annoyed with the TS contestants and they're attempts to be clever, as well as the designers tyrannical visions that don't seem to care about the actual people who live there.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-21 04:14 pm (UTC)I have the same issues with TS that you have. But there's Amy and Vern. Amyandvern!