Two days ago I played squash – for the first time since 1997. I am an idiot.

I would have blogged about it yesterday, but I underestimated – wildly, as it turns out – my fitness level.  As a result, I spent yesterday moving like Robot from Lost in Space.  It’s especially hard to type with arms that no longer bend.

So anyway, my girlfriend Moira and I decided to bring ourselves out of squash retirement, and give it another whirl. It seemed a top idea at the time.

Back in the day – way, way back in the day, when we were in high school, Moira and I and a group of our friends spent every Friday night at the Juniors Night at Corinda Squash. Also, we could meet boys. (We went to quite a stitched up all-girls Catholic school, so we took any opportunity.)

Anyway, 30 years ago (gah!) squash was pretty popular, and not at all uncool. It wasn’t achingly hip (it wasn’t the Zumba of its day) but lots of people played it – business men, housewives, school kids – and there were squash courts everywhere.

As well as Friday night squash, we played junior fixtures, and – allow me toot my own horn – we were pretty good.  If I’m being honest, Moira and the others were truckloads better than me – they had been playing for a few more years than me – but I wasn’t far behind.

And I was waaaaaaaay better at squash than I was at tennis.  Still am. After playing squash, a tennis racquest feels so enormous you’re dead certain you’re going to topple over if you try to hit a volley.

Squash had many of the benefits of tennis without many of the disadvantages. It wasn’t weather dependent, it was cheaper, but most importantly, you got to wear cute racquet sport fashions.  Back in our heyday, it was all about the pleated skirt (also seen on netball courts at the time). Obviously, given our tender ages and hotness (truly we were), we didn’t think twice about wearing flippy little skirts and singlet tops. Hell, we barely needed to wear bras back then, we were so pert.

Things have changed. A bit.

First of all, where the hell are all the squash courts? They always seemed so omnipresent – ugly blonde brick buildings with a giant “Squash” painted on the front wall, and often with a massive squash racquet perched atop a pole at the entrance to the carpark.

In 2011, I found a total of 4 squash courts on Brisbane’s northside, only one of which opened before lunch because they weren’t busy enough. Honestly, mid-morning was peak hour at Corinda Squash. You had to book weeks in advance, and even then you had to work around fixtures.

But Moira and I only had a certain post-dropoff window to play so we schlepped to Club Coops at Carseldine for our 9.30am booking. Turns out we didn’t so much need to book. The once state-of-the-art glass courts at Coops (glass courts were way cooler than the ummm, not-glass ones…) were deserted – all six of them. Still, it meant that our sons (on holidays, they’d been dragged along with the promise of a movie afterwards) could faff about with their various devices without annoying any serious players. The boys were just pleased there wasn’t anyone else around to witness their mothers humiliate themselves.

As it turns out, we didn’t humiliate ourselves. Not straight away. That didn’t happen until, oh, 5 minutes into it. when we nearly passed out. Not before we high-fived each other for “still having it” – i.e. the ability the hit the ball – and pretty well as it happens.  We just needed a little lie down between each point.

To clarify - we looked nothing like this

And there are the fashions.

The only flippy skirt I’ve worn in recent memory was attached to the plus-sized but comfy bikini bottoms I wear in the privacy of my own pool. And obviously, this time around, there were major supportive undergarments involved.

Not realising we could have played naked, given the absence of any other players, we both chose to wear 3/4 leggings and polo shirts. The leggings were a crap idea. Wearing them helped me finally understand the difference between those “compression” skins and my Country Road leggings which might be flattering under a winter swing coat, but they hold bloody nothing in place.

Our undergarments were more supportive than this

After the match (and I use that term lightly ) we were far too shagged to even consider showering and changing, so we decided to embrace the “post-gym yummy-mummy look” and head to Westfield Chermside as we were. With deodorant on board.

By the time we deposited the boys at the movies, the endorphins had kicked in (even they were exhausted) and we headed straight for Rebel Sport to kit ourselves out more appropriately for what we decided would be a twice a week squash habit. Obviously we had to replace the leggings. With skorts. Skorts are genius – skirts with built-in shorts. In flattering suck-in fabrics. How good is that?

Well, not as good as the PINK FLIPPY SQUASH (ok, tennis) DRESS I found. Yes, I’ve gone from playing squash in almost-trackie pants to frocking up like Maria Sharapova. I was a little disappointed that one can no longer buy frilly undies (unless you’re 3), so I also bought – are you ready – compression bike shorts to wear under my pink dress!

How I will look in my dress

Obvioulsy, given the seriousness with which we intend to take the squash caper, I can’t be using manky old hire racquets, so I also needed something more suited to our style. And this century. So I also shelled out for a new racquet that bore absolutely no resemblance to what I used to play with. I had been outraged when the Councillor put my old squash racquet in the Council Cleanup Pile (and even more outraged that it hadn’t been picked up by the cleanup trawlers looking for awesome stuff to offload on Ebay). But it did give me the justification I needed for a new racquet – yay me.

So, I may be $190 poorer, partially crippled, but I will look the business next Tuesday.

What sport or activity from your youth would you like to revisit?