What I Learned At Tennis Camp

When I was in 7th grade (I think it was 7th grade), my Dad thought it would be a good idea to send me to a week long tennis camp. I think he thought it would be fun, and since I was relatively athletic and enjoyed playing sports like field hockey and soccer, that I would like tennis. Plus, we lived in rich, snooty Princeton, where everyone played tennis. Obviously, I needed to play to fit in.

The day consisted of playing tennis, playing tennis, playing more tennis (in the insane Jersey humid heat with no shade on said tennis courts, mind you), then taking an hour for lunch and watching old tennis matches in air conditioning (in which I would usually fall asleep because it was the most boring thing ever), and then (ready?), more tennis. From 8am until 4:30pm. Every. Day. What a stupid idea.

When placed in situations such as this, the least one can expect to gain (even when miserable) are some comrades to pass the time with, right? You can almost always find someone who is even more unhappy than you are at tennis camp. However, it seemed as though I ended up in the happiest tennis camp in the world, where everyone bonded over their passion for the lamest sport in the world (sorry to any and all tennis lovers out there, but I just don't get this sport).

I decided to try and make conversation with the girls I was grouped with (we were placed in groupings of 6). Unfortunately for me, the other 5 girls already knew each other, and were not too keen on getting stuck with the miserable (and now highly sun-burnt - I'm paler than a vampire) newbie. That's fair, I suppose - I mean, I get it, you go to camp with your friends, you want to hang out with your friends - but is it necessary to be horrible nasty bitches to the nice little new camper? No, no it is not. That, however, is precisely what happened.

And these girls weren't typical mean girls. These girls? Well, they were tennis girls, which apparently are the worst kind. These girls picked on me like there was no tomorrow (which there was, because they picked on me then, too). They made fun of my clothing, they pulled my hair, they sat at a table across from me at lunch and threw pieces of food into my hair and into my drink, they giggled and pointed and laughed, and they told the other girls I was a lesbian, and that they should stay away from me because I might try to hit on them (so of course, the other girls did). As the week wore on, the teasing got worse, and I began to beg my parents not to send me back to camp. My Dad didn't understand why I couldn't handle a couple of mean little girls, and my Mom gave me the worst bully advice ever that all parents, at one point or another, tell their children - "Just ignore them; they are probably just jealous of you because you're so wonderful". Complimenting your children (which while kids are little, is sort of just complimenting yourself, parentals) does not make bullies stop bullying.

Thursday of my awful week came around, and I walked into camp, armed with my "ignoring" technique, and was greeted with a giant hug from one of the bitches - she was the chubby one out of the group, so I thought perhaps she had been ousted as well. She spent the entire day being nice to me - she sat with me at lunch, she talked to me, asked me questions about myself, told me how pretty my hair was - was I making a friend?! I was instantly happy. Suddenly, tennis camp didn't seem so bad! And maybe, she would talk to her bitchy friends and tell them how now that she had gotten to know me, I was actually awesome, and we could all be friends! Oh happy day (I wasn't really that ecstatic or pathetically hopefully, but let's say I was, for dramatic effect)! I went home with a renewed sense of self, and a lot more confidence. I couldn't wait until the next day, when I could expand my group of friends, exchange phone numbers, and leave tennis camp for good.

Unfortunately, I got to camp the next day to find that Chubby Magee had been toying with me the whole time, and had gone back to the evil wenches and told them everything I had said, thus fueling their making-fun-of-me fire. Awesome. I spent my last day of camp faking period cramps and sitting in the shade of a far away tree, reading my book and watching the girls from soccer camp play their final games. I ate lunch by myself, and hid out in the bathrooms during our video hour. When my mom picked me up, she asked how my last day of camp had gone. I told her if she ever sent me back to tennis camp, I would shave my head and tattoo something obscene on my face. They never sent me back.

The moral of the story?  Kids are assholes.  And that is what I learned at tennis camp.