Five women.

That’s how many signed up for the David Lloyd tennis club championships.

How many men signed up for men’s singles? Thirty two!

Why? Because men don’t give a shit. They put themselves out there. They don’t drive themselves mad worrying about whether they’ll win, whether they’ll play well, whether they’ll play badly. Or anything. They just get out there and give it a go.

Women on the other hand…worry about EVERYTHING. And I am the worst for this. But what am I actually worrying about? All those ‘what ifs’: What if I lose, what if I win, what if I don’t get a single point, what if I annilihate the opposition, what if my opponent’s horrible, what if they’re lovely. What should I wear?

I’m driving myself mad with this.

Point is. Five sign-ups from all the women who play all the time is ridiculous. How can I set an example as a supposedly confident and empowered woman if I don’t put myself out there. All those tennis lessons, improvers lessons, social matches. What am I doing it for? What does it say to other women if I don’t give it a go?

And so with much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands I put my hat into the ring. Number six. Instantly regretted it and started worrying.

Yesterday I played my first match. I lost. But the lady I played was completely lovely. We knew all the same places and all the same people. Dyed-in-the-wool Newbury-ites as it turned out. We’d both signed up for the same reasons and we were both ridiculously nervous about the whole thing. She was a much better player, but at the end of the day, I gave it my best shot, made her fight for the win and came away having learned loads but best of all, made a friend.

I’ve broken the seal, and on reflection, playing someone that good hopefully means that future matches might be marginally less challenging…physically at least. Mentally I’m still tying myself in knots.