Last week featured a series of three very intense, very different, very awesome days.
Thursday: Starting at 8 a.m., I got a three-and-a-half-hour tennis lesson at IMG, which is kind of a big deal in the sports world, since everyone from Drew Brees to the U.S. women’s national soccer team trains there. Mine was just an adult class for amateurs, but the coaching was top notch—every instruction was concise and easy to incorporate, like learning a dance: point your lead hand at the ball, shorten your back swing, touch the racquet with your left hand after you hit the ball, step forward with your right foot on the follow through. I feel like I got exponentially better at a sport I wasn’t particularly good at to begin with. And we got a visit from Nick Bollettieri, who coached Andre Agassi (among many others) and founded this tennis academy way back in the day.
But: Three and a half hours. For someone who considers herself relatively fit, I can confirm that they put these grownups through the ringer, cardiovascularly speaking. Which is awesome—I hate the idea of paying a lot of money to be athletically coddled—but I actually had to call on pride and competitive spirit a few times just to keep up with the drills. Wore my ass out.
Then, after lunch, I realized exactly how much my ass had been worn out, when I wanted to quit 30 seconds into an hour-long strength and conditioning session. I instantly—and lengthily—lamented my cavalier approach to sports nutrition. Breakfast, people. Always eat breakfast. By the end of it—and I have never before in my life wanted to quit a workout so badly—I didn’t know whether to cry, puke or pass out.
This is all for a story I’m working on. The upside: It was free, and I got a day out of the office. The downside: There are photographs. That are going to be published.