self-worth

We’ve all got something that keeps our ego in check. Some of us have social media, others have mirrors or a mother. Me, I’ve got tennis.

I’d been feeling good about myself. Writing and work were going well and I was starting to believe I was somebody.

Then, on the weekend, the bubble burst.

It wasn’t a big event – just a dozen middle-aged boys vying for glory and some sports socks. Yet it was a tournament nonetheless.

And, for someone like me, someone who sub-consciously equates self-worth with success, competition is the best reality check of them all.

Reader, I lost to them.

Having performed poorly I now feel more like myself – like a nobody, that is.

Which is fine. The truth hurts but, as a masochist, I embrace the ache.

It’s a timely reminder of my rightful ranking – in tennis and in life.

‘Yes, yes,’ said the therapist, briskly. ‘It’s an open-and-shut case. You’ve lost your identity and the new you doesn’t need teeth.’

She cast an eye over the wolf’s lithe figure.

‘Just out of curiosity, what do you eat?’

‘Shakes, mostly,’ said the wolf. ‘It’s a complete diet, only minus the children.’

‘Might be worth a try,’ murmured the therapist. ‘My sister’s getting married next month, you know, and I’d like to be looking my best.’

‘You go grrrl,’ said the wolf, giving her knee a squeeze.

timm in type