Many people wouldn’t classify tennis as a sport you can play, uh, with yourself, in the comfort of your own home, on the carpet. Well, I’m proving those haters wrong every day, albeit unnecessarily. How, you didn’t ask? I’m proud to say one of the best features of my home is the ad-hoc “tennis wall” I’ve started hitting regulation tennis balls against with weirdly devoted regularity. Am I improving my game in the process? I’d certainly like to convince myself so. And you can, too.
There are two types of high-school graduates: Type A) The high-school peaker. Type B) The high-school victim. These two groups share at least one major thing in common: They’re both crazy. Certifiable. Insane in the membrane and out. And there’s something else: In your own way, you’re destined to be an alma-mater member of each. Unless you read the rest of this post, then there might be hope. But no promises.
You have a perfect face. Can you believe it? There’s finally two of us! (Confession: I was relieved that you didn’t emerge resembling a wrinkly old Benjamin Button, but I would’ve put on my game face and said how cute you were, regardless.) Not that it’s about me or anything, but your birth a week ago was one of the most intense experiences of my life. And I’m just your weird uncle. I can’t imagine how much your parents must’ve been falling in love with you at first sight.