Worth It

Spent Monday morning involuntarily confronting futility of my chosen line of work; opted, after some hand-wringing and two strong cups of coffee, to insert head firmly back in sand and forge ahead anyway, with moderate success.

Picked up kids from school, went home to throw PTSA newsletter together moments before 4 pm deadline. Calculated I had just enough time to go skating before taking Simon to soccer practice, even with an unavoidable stop for gas on the way.

Found card reader at gas pump sealed with packing tape; ran into the MC Food Mart to pay, carefully averting eyes from "No Shoes, No Service" sign on door. Distracted by glitch with card ("Make that $35 dollars, please..."), then by multiple cell phone calls (Simon informing me he had scored 15 wpm on an online typing test and thus didn't see any reason to pursue the touch typing tutor I had set him up with), ran back out to car and roared off, wind in my hair and our pals Massy Ferguson blasting on KEXP (CD release party this Friday at Neumos!).

Realized half a mile down the road that I had forgotten to pump the gas I had paid for. Turned around, renegotiated Beacon Hill's seemingly permanent construction zone, filled the tank, headed out once more. Arrived at Alki six minutes behind schedule, discovered I had brought skates, water bottle, headphones... but not socks.

Went for it anyway.

Skating bliss carried me all the way home; arrived in time to watch the last two sets of the U.S. Open Final in between soccer drop-off and pick-up. Limped gingerly through the parenting homestretch -- homework, bath, Hobbit, bed -- before finding a moment to dig the giant band-aids out of the first aid cabinet.

While slathering blisters with triple antibiotic ointment, reached tentative conclusion that if Djokovic can last three hours and forty-three minutes with Nadal -- teetering over and over on the edge of breaking serve and being broken, putting away shot after shot that nobody could possibly hit back across the net only to find the ball hurtling back at him time and time again... If he can triple fault and misjudge a lob and come up short on shot twenty-two of a grueling volley... and then pull himself together and come back for more... If Djokovic can do all this and still applaud his opponent's perfect drop shot, still smile with wry triumph when Nadal finally misses one? Well then, I guess I can survive this.