Two-hour yoga, tennis slice, and other fun stuff

For New Year's Day, I first checked Serenity Yoga to see if there were any classes – there weren't – so I tried Yoga Center Amherst  and saw that they had a two-hour class combining music, chanting, and asanas.

So I signed up and went. It felt like the right place to be. Apparently a lot of other people felt so too. We were packed in. That was OK. It created a good energy inviting you to talk to your neighbor and go with the flow.

At one point when we were left to do our own thing and it got a little confusing, I got into one of my favorite and most calming poses, legs up the wall, supported by a block, only legs in the air, without a wall, like this image from Gaia. (I read someplace that you should do legs up the wall every day. It's a great way to get your thoughts to take a nap.)

I had vowed to take the day off from writing, but that didn't happen. I walked over to the Black Sheep Deli and got a coffee and a treat and sat in a favorite window seat. My resolution of staying calm got hijacked by the the caffeine. I guess going with the flow meant going and getting a coffee and writing.

Next I went to the Hadley Target and found it packed, like the yoga studio, only with a different vibe. It seemed like everyone who wasn't at yoga was shopping.

I had called Monday for my ride to Boston (for the light therapy, or ECP) but everyone had left early. I waited on hold early Tuesday morning for about 45 minutes, and when someone finally picked up, they said they couldn't do same-day service. I remembered to book ahead through February, but in the meantime I drove myself.

Due to accumulating scar tissue in my left arm, the nurse has had to jiggle the needle around. This is not a good feeling. Once in, it stung and then hurt, but some Tylenol took the edge off. Since I have been using two needles, the process goes much faster, around two hours instead of three.

Three sessions ago, I was curious about why my hematocrit was a little low, a little over 29. The curiosity bordered on concern. But two weeks ago it was 32, and yesterday it was 33. (Normal range for women is 34.9 to 44.5.) The doctor who visited me said that the lower count resulted from loss of blood in the procedure.

I slept at Diane and David's and then got up early enough to get to Bay Road on time for my tennis contract at 10. The traffic leaving Newton made me a little nervous. But it cleared up and I made it. We had some good games, but I don't understand what's up with one of the women. Sometimes she's friendly, at other times prickly.

She doesn't like the way I slice when we warm up at the net (says it isn't a good warmup because she can't hit it back), so today I hit it flat. The last time she said it, I said that's how I play, and I continued to do it, but in the interests of a good warmup, I did it differently today.

One of the players in George's summer group said that when she goes to Florida, her slicing gets everyone mad, so it must be the same effect. It's hard to change, because when we're with George, we hear about it when we DON'T slice. By the way, it works pretty well in a game.

Roger's backhand slice

Then, when she was at the net warming up, she didn't think I got enough to her, and she complained that she wasn't getting a good warmup. THEN when, in between points, I hit the ball over to her and said "heads up," or "coming," (one of the two) it didn't come near her, but she said something in an annoyed tone because she didn't like the way I sent it back. I'm still not sure what the problem was. I think maybe she wanted me to throw it instead of hit it. If I had thrown it, it wouldn't have gone very far.

Geez Louise.

I've been on the verge of saying something to her, and some day I might, but it hasn't come to that. Some day when we're warming up, maybe I'll ask to either be with her or hit opposite someone else and say that the reason for it is that she doesn't like the way I hit. Maybe that will get the point across that I've paid George and The Enfield Tennis Club a lot for that slice and I'm not going to give it up.

I have a new idol

Some of us look at younger people and feel envious, wishing we could be like they are.
(OK, maybe you never do, but it does happen to me.)

On Wednesday I wished I could be like Mrs. Hannigan, who is thirty or so years older than I am, give or take a few. I think George said she is a retired teacher.

To back up. I went for the first time to George's Wednesday morning clinic at the Holyoke Canoe Club, a beautiful place on the Connecticut River that traces its origins to 1885. Once you enter the club's grounds, tucked away behind Route 5, you pass a Victorian clubhouse that saw better days in the years when Holyoke flourished, but the tennis courts (eight clay and two hard) are in tip-top condition.

About a dozen players showed up for the Wednesday clinic from 9 a.m. to a little after 11:30. George had told me about this group. He said some have artificial body parts, so he sometimes makes up creative drills tailored to their abilities. I was unsure what to expect.

He gave newcomers a brief introduction.

"Everyone, this is Ronni," he said. "She plays around the world...Holyoke, South Hadley, Longmeadow, Enfield." Ha! Small world. But I do cover some distance, tennis-wise. (My longest trip is about 45 minutes to Enfield, Conn.)

He introduced all of the players by their first names, except for Mr. and Mrs. Hannigan.

Mrs. Hannigan is a small, wiry woman with wavy white hair. She stoops a little. Mr. Hannigan, also white-haired, has a bad hip. He hardly moves. I sized them up skeptically.

We did a drill where we hit cross-court with a partner, then rotated one spot to the right so that everyone eventually faced everyone else. I started out with Mr. Hannigan. Without moving, he returned a lot of balls.

But Mrs. Hannigan was the biggest surprise. George's big thing is the slice, which is natural on my backhand but not too pretty on my forehand. She sliced everything perfectly, high to low, the ball spinning backwards over the net. I missed some balls just trying to study her swing. She sliced, the ball spun backwards and died.

When it was time for us to rest, George put out cones for another drill. He gave Mrs. Hannigan the job of putting balls on all of the cones so that we would have a target.

"Mrs. Hannigan gets restless," he said. "She needs something to do."

"Thank you," she said, jumping up while the rest of us sank into our chairs under the hot sun.

Then came time to play. My last partner of the day, Jane, had already played both Mr. and Mrs. Hannigan. She said he is ambidextrous, quickly switching from his left to his right hand before his opponent even notices what's going on. I would have liked to see that.

Jane and I faced George and Mrs. Hannigan. She hit so many short angled slice shots that I told Jane maybe we should move closer to the net.

"Then she'll just lob us," Jane said. "I've seen it."

And that she did, hitting up, up, up over our heads to a spot that I might have gotten to 20 or so years ago. At that point I was getting a little loopy, and I burst out, "I want to be Mrs. Hannigan!"

She allowed a small smile, reminding me of our eighth-grade math teacher, Mrs. Casey, who put up with us and seemed to hold onto hope that eventually we would get it. We thought Mrs. Casey was really old, but she was probably in her 60s. She was big into "The Little Engine That Could."

Mrs. Hannigan was similarly encouraging.

"You can do it," she said.

Maybe when I grow up.