I come from a tennis-watching family with delusions of grandeur; a cousin on my mother's side was, for a time, ranked the #1 women's tennis player in India, and we've all turned this fact into proof that we are an athletic family, when the truth is . . . we're so not, aside from that cousin and my little brother.
Anyway. Tennis. I forgot how much fun it is, until I tuned in over the long weekend to watch Rafael Nadal play. I can't believe this kid is only 23. I feel like I've been watching him play for years - because I have, because he's been winning tournaments, Grand Slams, since he was a teenager. He plays a really beautiful, exciting game - groundstrokes and footwork, rather than a big serve and aggressive winners. And he takes it seriously, isn't a ham, but he's clearly having fun out there (even when he's playing with a torn abdominal muscle).
And he's just adorable. He lives with his family! He got all flustered when an interviewer noted the whistling and cheering that erupted when he took off his shirt (to get medical attention for his abdominal muscle)! He's lithe, with big shoulders and slim hips; he's got a crooked smile and eye-crinkles; he has the most beautiful skin ever.
I don't know why I'm rambling about him now, except that I was in bed, watching with sleep-droopy eyes as he finished off Gael Monfils, and that gave me some very nice images to go to sleep on. And then I promptly had a dream in which Patrick Warburton - in full Tick get-up - was trying to seduce Meryl Streep.