Mommy Nature

They say that a mother doesn't have a favourite child. 

I have always been a lil' dubious about this pseudo-saying. However, after seeing Nadal vs. Federer, I had completely disregarded it, the way I do every single season of Big Brother. 

Nature acted motherly today. She sent rain to pause the match after Nadal sort of injured his right knee, and then she sent a second one, perhaps to calm him, when Federer was dangerously catching up. Clearly, Mama has a favourite.

I am, of course, talking about the single men's finals at Wimbledon. That's tennis, by the way, to those living under rocks.

I had chapped lips for the entire day and had to reapply chapstick every minute, just to make sure that my lips didn't fall off. I had to put a pillow, a very thick one, on my lap because my thighs were red and stinging from me dementedly slapping them, everytime Federer scored. They are, to this moment, very sore.

The duration of that game was perhaps the longest that I have ever stared at a television, and I am quite sure that the quality of my eyesight has just dropped a couple of points. The game had my complete, undivided attention. Most of the time.

There were moments though when my attention span fleeted, and was that of a retarded goldfish. For instance, I kept asking myself these two questions every now and then: 

Number one: What do you call those pubescent boys and girls that scutter about the place, catching balls and handing towels?

Number two: Why the hell does Gwen Stefani look so bored?

At about 2:30 in the afternoon, I plunged down the waters of Wimbledon and had just resurfaced, at this moment, for much needed, life-preserving air.

Ultimately, Tarzan (aka Nadal), with his tan and bulging biceps, became the king of the Wimbledon jungle. He climbed his way up to his family, which included his bioloigical mother, and hugged/strangled them.

An upstart has to win someday, right?

This upstart, like that upstart, is exhausted.