Wimbledon Shwimbledon

For the last ten years, I have been playing tennis with a group of women who are only slightly less awful than I am.  There’s no doubt that I’m the lowest gal on the tennis totem pole, but they would each lobby for that distinction, and that is why I love them so.

Not long ago at our regular Wednesday tennis game, I hit a forehand shot in my usual herky-jerky way. It felt like my arm was going to come off.  Something had come unhinged.  I could not imagine it was anything serious, so I went to see my girlfriend’s brother Howie who is the sort of doctor you go to when you don’t think anything is wrong.  He’s a lovely man but probably not such a great doctor, which is why you can always get an appointment right away. Howie examined my arm and told me I had tennis elbow.

I laughed out loud. 

The idea that I could be injured playing tennis was ridiculous.  Our 9:30 court time starts with an update on what has happened since last week.  How did you survive the visit with your mother-in-law?  Has Annie been asked to Homecoming yet?  How is Matt’s job search going?  No tennis will be played until these pressing questions have been answered.  We have never opened a can of tennis balls before 10:00. 

Then we warm up.  For our doubles game, we usually pair up with the gal who can best help us with this week’s domestic dilemma. A good match generally ends with a recommendation for a movie to see this weekend, an idea for a Father’s Day gift, or the name of a great math tutor.   

Then we start.  We play about ten to fifteen minutes until someone has a hot flash and needs to take off her sweatshirt and get a drink. 

This is not the sort of game where anyone gets injured.

I tried explaining this to Howie.  He shook his head, perhaps understanding that I was as much of a tennis player as he was an expert in sports medicine. He pinpointed the motion that was irritating my arm. Sideways, it looked like a tennis forehand shot, but if I rotated my arm inward, my palm faced the ground.  Howie explained that lifting anything with my palm down was verboten.

This struck me as a very familiar motion.  Too familiar.  “Like this?” I pantomimed taking wet blue jeans out of the washing machine.

“Exactly,” said Howie.

“Or like this?” I demonstrated the motion of unloading my new stoneware dishes from the dishwasher.

Howie nodded.

“How about this?” I asked, as I pretended to lift four gallons of milk out of my trunk. 

Howie confirmed my suspicions: I didn’t have tennis elbow; I had hausfrau elbow.

Since I’d left my paying job several years ago to stay home with my children, I’d suffered many pokes at my self-esteem, but this was a grand slam. 

Howie said, “I’ll give you a shot of cortisone, and then you can’t play tennis or lift anything with your palm down for three months.”

No tennis for three months! I would really miss my girls every Wednesday morning, but I’d just have to arrange some lunch dates to keep in touch.  As far as my diagnosis, no one needed to know my true ailment.  I was sticking with tennis elbow—very Chrissie Evert.  But no laundry?  No unloading the dishwasher?  No bringing in the groceries?

I had just received doctor’s orders to cease and desist housework.  This was the greatest day of my life.