Joy Interrupted
Are you the perpetrator of your own nonsense?
I am hot and angry. I’ve bounced back and forth all day like the balls I hit at tennis tonight.
Awake at five (for no reason).
Kids out the door by seven.
Coffee. Food. Shower.
Class at nine. Homework at eleven.
Lunch (and an episode of Dickinson) at noon.
Vet at one. Kid number two at three.
Pick up dog and rotisserie chicken at four.
Kid number one from field hockey.
Make Dinner. Eat. Change. Tennis. Dishes. Clean up.
Turn the AC back on after changing it to heat last night.
Some of the items on this list could’ve been avoided… Most of them were just creative ways to avoid what I didn’t want to do: a character analysis essay, college applications, emails, phone calls. Busywork disguised as productivity. My favorite genre.
Why didn’t anyone put away the dishes before I got home—before they invaded my bed, my private sanctuary—with their stinky feet and heads? Why is there dog poo just sitting there like it pays rent? Why did I have to ask someone to take out the trash again?
As my irritation grew, I checked myself on a few things:
Earlier, my husband offered to take over dinner for me tonight. I said no. (I couldn’t tell you why. Probably guilt over avoiding things). Then, he planned on picking up kid number one from practice, but when it was close to five and he was still on a phone call, I got anxious she’d be waiting. I went and got her. Unknown to me, they had already agreed that she’d be okay if he picked her up a few minutes late.
Things like this make me realize: I am both the victim and the villain here.
I am the perpetrator of my nonsense.
The wild contrast that makes me realize this: on my way home from tennis lessons—minutes before this hot and angry moment—I was giddy. I drove twenty-five miles an hour with the windows down. In the October dark, I breathed in the warm air. I savored the post-play adrenaline and joy bubbling inside me like soda in a shaken can.
The excitement caught me off guard. I haven’t experienced this flavor of fun in a while. It reminded me of when I first learned to play racquetball after having my first kid. A retired NJ motorcycle cop caught me watching from a treadmill at LA Fitness. “Hey kid, you wanna play?” He was tough, stingy with praise, but one of the best teachers I ever had. It gave me purpose beyond just keeping an infant alive. Now, I play a few times a year since we moved away from that area. It’s usually with my husband since I don’t know many people who play here. Still, I get so excited to play and feel so happy afterward.
Thus, I am loving playing tennis right now. I love learning new things, especially when combined with using my body. Also, I was gassed because afterwards, I courageously asked the coach if she had any recommendations for how I could play more often. With a twinkle in her eye, she said, “I have some ideas. Let me think on it. I have your number.” 😜 I don’t know what that means, but I’m excited. Hopefully, it means I can play more than once a week and not with my eleven-year-old, who hits balls everywhere except to me.
Hitting a ball with strength and purpose feels powerful. I want to run. I want to get better. I want to win. I want to focus on what’s right in front of me—this swing, this breath, this moment. The past and future disappear. I lock in. All that’s left is what I need to do in this and this and this and this moment.
I am also the perpetrator of my joy.