The sun ain’t free
The aches and pains of 34 are a lot different from those of 21. At 21, I moved across the country to San Francisco and didn't think twice about whether I would like it or not. I would get five hours of sleep and bounce back the next day ten times stronger, almost immune to fatigue. A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I moved to Florida from New York City, and it was an emotional journey. Thought was not absent this time.
In fact, it plagued my brain. Would I like the people, the food, and the tennis? Would the sun be too strong or not strong enough? Would the real estate pop 25 years from now? On top of that, I was dealing with a forearm injury that seemed to have been placed perfectly to remind me that I am not invincible, no matter how many vegetables or poisons I eliminate from my diet.
No matter how many stretches I do, life always gets the last pull.
But from an objective point of view, the move had gone smoothly. We traveled down the East Coast and landed safely in Orlando, Florida. But it felt different then when I journeyed to San Francisco alone a decade ago. The adventure I craved back then was not as potent. It wasn't an adventure I craved on this move with my wife.
It was comfort.
And if you are craving comfort on a random move to Florida, you are in the wrong business. I didn't know where to get my coffee, what neighborhoods to avoid, or where to escape and hit a couple of serves. Comfort is the opposite of what a move is about.
On top of being uncomfortable, I was unkind to my wife. It was painful to hear her tell me this, but this lesson was better learnt early on than 20 years down the road when resentment has the runway to boil into hatred. I was passively aggressively blaming her for every wrong turn the city of Orlando threw at us. The lightning, the lizards, the Mickey Mouse traffic was all being thrown back in her face as if it was her who forced us to try and elevate our lives. She cried in my arms at an outlet, which is the last place you'd expect her to cry.
And in that moment, I knew I was failing.
I was putting too much emphasis on the move itself as if the place was going to define us. It was our team that would dictate the outcome, not the stadium we play in.
And our team is the best. We have something real, something special, something I thank God for every day, but every day life is there to make you forget what matters. It's why Adam and Eve had it all but couldn't help paying attention to the things they weren't supposed to. It's why when you double-fault in a practice match, you don't thank God for the two legs that allow you to take another swing at the ball.
The best teams are challenged every day, but they find ways to win when their best stuff isn't there. Like when Nadal's having an off day but still pulls out a win with simple grit and will.
In a way, my wife and I have had a fairy tale two-year start. Dinners in the city, trips to Cape Cod, vacation, engagement, marriage, and move. It's been fast and the happiest stretch of my entire life, but now we're stuck in a place we are not sure of with no couch. I thought I was entering a sun paradise, yet it's rained almost every time I've stepped outside.
As a writer, it's a comical situation actually, but as a human being, it's been tough on both of us. It's tested my marriage early, and I only pray that it's the type of test a US Open champion faces early to keep them fresh.
Because the truth is, I really only care about one thing. I don't really care if I ever become a famous writer or a great tennis player. Those things keep me interested in society to some extent, but at the end of the day, they're just nice-to-haves. But I want to be a good husband, a good father, a good person to the people I love.
Those are the match points of life for me.