“You remember these guys, don’t you?”
I hate that question.
Facing me are three cool, handsome, smiling, stud guys, who must be all of 18 years old. They are wearing shorts and t-shirts displaying hairy legs and rounded biceps. One of them is wearing a cap and, joy of all joys, he’s wearing it the right way round!
I’m at the tennis court, it’s 7 a.m., I’m pretty disgruntled with my game, I’m sweating, my hair is plastered to my skull, and tennis sir is waiting for me to go all, oh-yeah-how-could-I-forget-these-handsome-hunks. I struggle to get the appropriate expression on my face while my brain hunts for the words. In the end, I look bewildered and mutter something like, huh-who-what-where? Yeah, sure.
“Well, at least you remember me,” challenges the handsomest of the three. He’s the one wearing the cap. And he, apparently, remembers me!
Grateful to be able to focus on just one handsome face at a time, I turn my full attention to him and guess what – under the charming smile, the right-way-round cap and the rather appealing one-day stubble is a guy I vaguely remember. I used to play with him. He used to be quite good in fact. And of course, he used to be about 12.
Sigh. I’m not sure whether this makes me feel young or old or lucky or not, but it sure makes me feel lost. How come he grew up and became the cool dude, the stud boy, and I’m still fuddy-duddy old me, getting fuddier and duddier by the minute?