Phew! I knew I was out of shape; I just didn’t know how out of shape I was. Nothing like a little tennis to put things into perspective.

Out of the blue, I decided to take adult lessons at Thrush Tennis Courts in Peru. And it’s been the worst idea I’ve had in quite awhile. It’s killing me. Three nights a week, I subject myself to tennis torture.

Granted, I hadn’t picked up a racquet for at least 15 years, probably longer. But I expected it to all come back to me — immediately. I’d say just like riding a bicycle except when I tried to ride my bicycle after years of not riding my bicycle, I took a header over the handlebars.

I’d suddenly become one of the people I used to make fun of — yes, I know, I wasn’t very nice. Call it karma. I became one of the ladies who make the young people roll their eyes. They cross their fingers, hoping not to get stuck with me. Nobody gravitates toward me to be my partner. Nobody asks me to join their foursome. They whisper and giggle, looking in my direction.

And I don’t blame them. I feel like I’m wasting their time. Now, I wish I would’ve been a little more patient and understanding back in the day. I wish I would’ve been kinder. But back then, what did I know?

Now, here I am, the person nobody wants on their team. A position I’m not familiar with. 

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy because I’ve been sedentary for so long. But I didn’t think it would be as difficult as it has been. The first night, I felt like I’d been transported back in time. I was the obnoxious little kid stuck taking lessons from my older brother, who happens to still be the instructor.

But this time, I simply listened and did as I was told.

The drill was slightly familiar, bouncing the ball down with the racquet and then bouncing it up with the racquet and then alternating sides of the racquet while keeping the ball in the air. The twist was, we had to run, then walk, then run the width of four or five courts while bouncing the ball on a racquet. 

Of course, I was the last one. I laughed it off. But as the hour wore on, I got worn out. We did drills that had us doing all kinds of running. Slowly but surely, I started making the young people move ahead of me.

Even though I’ve been practicing my forehand and backhand on the wall behind the clubhouse, I haven’t been improving. When I hit with a person, the ball either goes into the net or barely dribbles over it. It’s disheartening.

It feels like I’m giving it all, but seeing few results.

One night, I had to quit altogether. I couldn’t keep up. The heat was ridiculously high and a few drills did me in. I got dizzy and felt nauseated, so I welcomed the invitation to sit out the rest of the lesson.

I stayed and watched as the youngsters played, envying their talent and their youth, wishing I could keep up and regretting how out of shape I’ve become. For an instant, I thought about quitting. But then I realized that I need to see this through. I give up on myself too easily.

That’s one of the reasons I’m as out of shape as I am. I sometimes think, “Why bother?” But I don’t like being the last one in drills. I don’t like the way I feel physically or mentally. 

So, I’ll see this through. And I’ll be patient and understanding with the ones who are just starting, who might be overweight, who might be past middle-age. No rolling of the eyes. No whispering or giggling. Just trying to keep up keeps me busy enough.

• Deb Saine is a columnist for the Pharos-Tribune. She can be reached through the newspaper at ptnews@pharostribune.com