One of the many unexpected aspects of being married to my lovely wife is the frequent opportunities to demonstrate my patience, by which I mean WAITING… and WAITING… and WAITING. But the reasons I have to wait are not what you think.
A common complaint of many husbands is having to wait for their wives. Waiting as she picks out an outfit; waiting for her to finish putting on makeup; waiting in the store for her to pick out the perfect lamp for the living room. Waiting at the hospital while she takes forever to deliver their baby.
You will never hear me make any such complaints about my wife – although there was that one time when I got a flat tire. It took her forever to jack up the car and put on the spare. I got so bored waiting for her to finish. A guy can only play Solitaire on their phone so many times before it gets repetitive.
The truth is, in most aspects of our wonderful life together, my wife rarely makes me wait. She can be very decisive. What I’m not quite as fond of is the way my dear wife takes FOREVER whenever we are visiting an interesting place, particularly one that has a lot of incredible scenery or fascinating history. Once there, if we see ANYTHING REMOTELY WORTH TAKING A PHOTO OF, well, that’s when the problems begin. Did I mention my wife is an artist? She does oil paintings of landscapes – mountains, flowers, birds, seashores, and interesting architecture. She is very accomplished and well known for her artwork.
Because of her passion for her art, whenever we take a hike to check out, say a pristine lake or some lovely beach or a historic castle or a cathedral or a heron sitting on a log, my wife has an uncontrollable impulse to take several photographs. Let me clarify. When I say, “take several photographs,” I don’t mean three or four photos of the very same thing. That’s what a normal person might do. My wife is not normal. No, she’ll take three or four DOZEN photos of the very same thing. Why does she obsess over getting the perfect shot? She claims it’s so she can make oil paintings from her photos.
Recently we took a stroll along a beach near our home. She loved the way the sunlight reflected off the waves as they lapped along the shore. I’ll admit it was a lovely, tranquil maritime setting. That’s why I took two photos… and my wife took 125. She kept on clicking over and over. Thirty years ago, when people used film to take pictures, my wife knew that each snap of the camera’s shutter cost money to develop. So, she was conservative in her click-count.
Thanks to the age of digital cameras, she can now take a myriad of shots, and they’re all free. Whoever invented the digital camera, that person has seriously threatened our marriage and my sanity. That’s because my wife sees nothing wrong with spending hours photographing every possible nuance of a babbling brook, while I sit around waiting for her to run out of steam. She never does. She’s the Energizer Bunny of taking pictures.
My wife is a gifted artist. She paints landscapes in oil of the natural beauty near where we live. Just one problem. She is forever in search of the PERFECT SHOT!
One time we were on vacation in Rome when we decided to explore the famous Coliseum. Big mistake. My wife stopped every ten feet to take fifteen to twenty photos of the very same building from a slightly different angle, apparently in pursuit of a Pulitzer-Prize-winning photograph. If you’re curious as to which of the 800+ photos she took of this ancient Roman ruin she ultimately used to paint from, the correct answer would be none of them. She decided not to do a painting – probably because she was sure she would have better luck clicking hundreds of photos of the canals of Venice or a row of Vespa scooters in Milan.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. And her landscape paintings are truly amazing. But I have seen glaciers crawl forward in less time than it takes for her to finish taking photos of, say, a crawling glacier. I’ve learned to accept this peculiar quirk about my wife. Whenever I’m forced to wait around while she clicks away in search of the perfect closeup of a tulip, I try to make productive use of my spare time by getting caught up on my latest Stephen King novel… or chopping down tree branches and erecting a lean-to, to take a nap. She’s going to be a while.
Our house is filled with dozens of her original paintings – on just about every wall of every room, I pretty much live in an art gallery. Before long we will run out of wall space for her art. Maybe then she’ll dial back on the need to take hundreds of photos of every waterfall she sees.
Who am I kidding? She’s not going to change. But I have discovered a way to give her a taste of her own medicine. In the evening, when we sit down to watch a movie together, I deliberately take an annoyingly long time to decide on a film. I’ll check out the trailers of ten different movies, until in exasperation she whines, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST PICK ONE!”
It drives her crazy. Let’s just say we’re even.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
For too long, millions of people naively thought pickleball was a relaxing, fun, social game. Little did they know just how dangerous a sport it really is… until now.
Fellow pickleball players, it’s time somebody lulled all of you out of your collective coma and revealed the news that the mainstream media refuses to report: Pickleball is trying to kill you. Now hear me out. Yes, pickleball – that sport you shifted over to a couple years ago because you found tennis too strenuous.
Oh sure, the game looks innocent enough. Heck, even I was fooled and regularly played the sport three or four days a week before I discovered the terrifying truth. But I’ve done some research about the health risks of playing pickleball. Prepare to be shocked. If you think playing pickleball is not hazardous to your health, then you might as well take up smoking crack cocaine. At least with crack you’re probably not going to tear your Achilles Tendon.
Pickleball might be sweeping the nation as our fastest growing sport. But make no mistake, it’s not just a game. It’s a potential death trap waiting to suck you into its treacherous evil clutches. Let’s talk about the numbers, people. If the following statistics don’t terrify you and make you throw your paddle into a nearby volcano, then you’re living in denial – either that or you must not live near a volcano.
In 2023 alone, here in the United States of America, pickleball injuries clocked in at a staggering 66,750 emergency room visits. We’re talking about twisted ankles, broken wrists, sprained backs, and the occasional heart attack from the sheer shock of realizing that you finally won a game against Trevor, who is a 4.0 player, and you’ve never beaten Trevor.
But it doesn’t stop there. The pickleball plague reaches deep into our healthcare system, sending over 366,000 Americans to outpatient visits annually. That’s over a third of a million individuals who, after engaging in what was supposed to be a pleasant recreational activity, found themselves begging for immediate medical attention and needing anything from stitches to hip surgery to a heart transplant (admittedly, the likelihood of needing a heart transplant after a pickleball injury is probably remote).
I wonder if there’s a support group for the survivors of pickleball. If not, there should be. The meetings would probably have a 50% no-show rate because, well, half of those people would still be recovering in traction. Statistics show that men are significantly more likely to be hospitalized after a pickleball injury than women, with a ratio of ratio of 2.3 to 1. The medical explanation for this discrepancy is that men are wimps.
Still think pickleball is a safe sport and that you’ll somehow skate by unscathed? Good luck with that, buddy. Did you know that in 2023 alone there were 4,700 hospitalizations and just under 9,000 surgeries in the USA caused by pickleball? All those hospitalized victims had to endure the trauma of anxiously wondering whether they would make it through the surgery alive – or at the very least wondering if that gorgeous intern would be coming come back soon to check on them. Man, they’re cute! (That’s what that red button is for next to your hospital bed.)
As if all this wasn’t enough to make you rethink your life choices, let’s turn to the financial horror show that pickleball has unleashed upon the world. The cost of this bloodsport? $377 million in healthcare expenditures in the USA alone in 2023. Yes, you read that right – nearly $400 million spent on treating people who decided that hitting a plastic ball over a net was a good way to spend an afternoon. Let that dink in, I mean sink in.
I can think of a lot of better things I could have spent that $377 million on – like buy a desolate country (I hear Greenland is for sale, but that’s a topic for another time). Or perhaps you could stay at home, park yourself on the couch, and binge-watch all five seasons of Breaking Bad, like you’ve always been meaning to (because your spouse wouldn’t let you watch it when it first came out).
At this point, you may be thinking, “But Tim, I just wanted to get some light exercise. I’ve found it to be a good social activity. I’m just trying to have fun!” Well, fun is what they call it right before you’re sprawled on the court, clutching your ankle while the EMT’s prepare to load you into the back of the ambulance.
This is a typical way too many pickleball matches end – with someone ending up in the hospital, in need of medical attention. This man is distraught – mainly because the doctor told him to rest for four days before heading back out onto the court. “Four days, doc? That’s an eternity! I can’t wait that long!”
Oh sure, the social appeal of the game is undeniable. Nothing brings people together quite like a shared experience of trauma and profound worry over whether you’ll ever walk again. On the bright side, you just might meet some interesting new people in the waiting room of the ER. But honestly, was it really worth a trip to the ER when you hurled your body headlong into the concrete court just so you could make the game-winning shot? I think we both know the answer to that question: Yes. Yes, it was. But that’s beside the point.
I for one can no longer stand idly by and watch as pickleball claims more innocent victims. If you’re playing right now, it’s time to stop. Take up shuffleboard, join a knitting circle, or maybe get into competitive bird-watching – anything but pickleball.
After writing the previous paragraph, I did a little more research. If none of the above suggestions for an alternative to pickleball appeals to you, then you could always try skydiving. I just Googled it, and apparently there has not been a single reported incident of anyone dying while skydiving in years – unless you count the 486 people who died between 2000 and 2021 due to parachutes failing to open. But what are the odds that would ever happen to you?
Okay, so did a little more Googling. It turns out that, technically, there has never been a report of anyone actually dying from playing pickleball. But for God’s sake, why take any chances?
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
If you’re an American thinking of traveling to Pakistan, perhaps I can help steer you in the right direction, because I recently returned from that amazing country myself. Don’t believe all the media hysteria. People there are amazingly kind and welcoming. But before you go, remember the following travel tips:
1st, Try to learn a few basic words and phrases of Urdu (the primary language spoken there). The locals will deeply appreciate your attempt to talk in their language, even if it’s just to say hello, thank you, or “Where is the nearest McDonalds?”
2nd, Remember you’re a guest in their culture. Show respect for their traditions.
3rd, You might not want to wear your favorite “HEY, HEY, USA – WE’RE NUMBER 1” t-shirt. Our two governments are not big fans of each other at the moment. And if you’re a woman, cover your arms and legs. They don’t need to see your Batman Forever tramp stamp or, for that matter, the tattoo that reads “Jesus Saves.”
4th, No beer keg parties in your hotel room. Pakistan, like most Muslim nations, is a dry country. Alcohol is forbidden by their religion. But Mountain Dew soft drink is not, I’m relieved to report!
5th, And perhaps most importantly, whatever you do, do NOT bring me along with you on your trip. You’re liable to end up in jail, or worse yet, have to sit through a three-day cricket match (their national sport).
Let me back up. When I told people I was going to travel to Pakistan – by myself, sans my wife or as part of a tour – the reactions from just about everyone I told ranged from “Seriously? Pakistan? By yourself? Are you insane?” to “Pakistan? By yourself? Are you insane? Seriously, are you insane?”
L to R: Hafiz, me and Hammad dining overlooking the world-famous Badshahi Mosque in Lahore, Pakistan. Helpful travel tip: While it’s fine to hug your friends, don’t hug every local just because they smile at you. Start by offering to shake hands.
No, I’m not insane. And I had a wonderful time. But I have to say, I did screw up a few times. The reason I went to a country that few American tourists frequent is because of two young Pakistani friends I have come to know over the past three years. Let’s call them Hafiz and Hammad… because well, that’s their names.
Back in 2020, I discovered Hafiz while doing an internet search for a video editor. I was about to start my YouTube channel of VFTB video commentaries. I knew how to record my videos, but I needed help editing, adding background images, inserting photos, captions and sound effects. Hafiz offered these services, and I’ve been working with him ever since.
After a few months, we started creating educational videos in a series called Across the World in which each week we would record myself and Hafiz’s good friend Hammad, discussing various topics from sports to courtship & marriage to our nations’ historic ties to and rebellions from Great Britain. Our goal was to educate Americans about Pakistani culture and vice versa. In the process of all this collaboration, I became good friends with both of these very smart and extremely kind young men. Over time, we forged sort of an Uncle-Nephews kind of bond.
So, in November 2023, I flew from Seattle to Istanbul, changed planes, and flew from there to Lahore, Pakistan in a span of 23 hours. Lahore is a city of more than 12 million people. All this to see my friends in person for the first time. Neither one of them has ever left Pakistan. I cannot say enough about the remarkable warmth, kindness, and patience displayed by the two of them, and every other Pakistani I met.
Oh sure, I had to deal with a Muslim culture very different from my own mostly Christian world back home. I had to navigate my way in cities where most of the people barely spoke English. But keep this in mind: They had to put up with a 68-year-old American humor writer with the maturity of a 17-year-old, who could barely speak a word of Urdu, and who travels around the world with a stuffed animal teddy bear named Grumpy and tries to hug everybody. So, if you ask me, they had the much greater burden to bear.
L to R: Ik-Bal, Grumpy (in front), me, and Hammad. Ik-Bal was so funny and kind, I gave him my hat as a gift. (True) Then he reciprocated by offering to let me marry his sister. (Okay, that part was a lie. My, just how gullible are you?)
I read a fair amount about Pakistan’s culture and history before I arrived. But still, I committed more than my share of cultural faux pas. Let me list just a few of them.
Improper Hugging: I’m a hugger. Guess what? Pakistanis are not – unless you’re a family member or a very close friend. But I hug everybody. Here’s a useful tip to tuck away. If you’re an American man, visiting the home of a Pakistani family, DO NOT HUG THE WIFE. Just trust me on this. You might as well try to give them a French kiss on the mouth. It’s way too forward.
Language mistakes: You don’t have to learn a lot of words. Here is a phrase I used over and over: “Meera Nam Tim Hai.” It means “My name is Tim.” I also found the following phrase came in extremely handy: “Maaf Kee Ji Ye,“ which loosely translates to “Excuse me if I offended you. I’m an American tourist, and I’m an idiot.”
But whichever words you memorize, make sure you pronounce them correctly. A very useful word to learn is Alhamdulilah, pronounced “AL-Ham-Du-LEE-Lah.” It loosely means, “I’m good” or more literally, “By God’s grace, I’m good.” However, apparently, I kept pronouncing it “Al-Ham-Du-LOO-Lah.” I don’t know what that errant pronunciation means, but my embarrassed host explained it is essentially an Urdu curse word that should never be uttered.
At one point, I attempted to ask someone for directions, but my words came out so badly mangled in Urdu that apparently I had asked, “Please, may I eat your cat for breakfast?” After that, I pretty much stuck to Hello, Thank You, and Check Please.
One of the local street performers I came across. I asked if I could take his photo, and he said yes. Then I asked if he could play me any songs by Taylor Swift. Said he’d never heard of her. Isn’t that crazy?
Walking in bare feet: When you enter someone’s home, you must take off your shoes. The souls of shoes are considered unsanitary. That said, I found myself walking down the hallway of my hotel in my bare feet and was (politely) stopped by a hotel clerk reminding me (very nicely) that I needed to wear footwear. He immediately provided me with comfy sandals for my feet. I wonder if next time I walked down the hallway stark naked he might provide me with a cool Pakistani man’s outfit. Probably not. Forget I even mentioned the idea.
Despite my periodic stumbles, everyone was very gracious and patient. The Pakistani people I met were the nicest people I have ever met, kind to a fault. The only thing I would criticize about their country is their somewhat embarrassingly lax airport security. How else to explain the fact an American humor writer and his teddy bear Grumpy were permitted entry into the country? Just saying.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
As I get older, I realize that I don’t need a lot of “stuff” anymore. I want to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasures of life – like lying on the bow of this powerboat … off the coast of Barbados. I’d even settle for the coast of Nantucket. I’m not picky.
As I look back on my youth, I realize that I’ve matured. I’m no longer that zealously ambitious young man who craved fortune and “the good life.” If I’m being totally honest, I was overly pre-occupied with acquiring “stuff.” I wanted a nice car; a house I could be proud of. I now laugh with embarrassment thinking about this younger version of me, who wanted to “have it all.”
Now that I’m older and wiser, I appreciate that what’s important in life is not simply acquiring material possessions. My, how shallow that sounds to me now.
As I’ve aged, my values and priorities have evolved. What truly matters in the autumn of my life is the joy of developing meaningful, lasting friendships. I want to meet friends I can talk to openly and be vulnerable with, sharing my deepest, most personal hopes and fears. A sensitive, honest person who will be there for me in good times and bad. And last but not least, someone who – how can I put this politely – owns a nice boat.
Young people often talk about having “friends with benefits.” But they have it all wrong. It’s much better to have friends with boats. Now that I’m retired, it really doesn’t matter to me in the least how much stuff I possess – just so long as I have a few close friends… with fast-moving watercraft. If they had a 30-foot sailboat, I would certainly consider becoming their casual acquaintance. But I’m really looking more for a friend with a powerboat with at least 350 horsepower. I really don’t care if it’s Bayliner, a Sea Ray, or a Chris-Craft, just as long as it can reach a top-end speed of 70 mph or faster.
Recently, I met an amiable fellow. We started to hit it off. And from what I could tell, he seemed to share my political beliefs. Sadly, he only owned a dinghy, which he mainly used for crabbing. It could barely reach speeds of 10 mph. Needless to say, that’s not what I’m looking for in a friendship these days. So, I had no choice but to ghost him.
Why this obsession with friends with boats? I live on an island. My wife and I moved here to be near the water. You may be asking yourself, “Hey, if it’s so important, why don’t you buy YOUR OWN boat, Tim?” What a stupid question. Have you seen the cost of high-quality boats lately? Not to mention the cost of mooring, insuring, and refueling them.
I’m looking to make a few new guy friends. All I care about is that they’re a good person, willing to be vulnerable and open, and own a sweet-looking ride like this guy has. Woah! Is that Mont-Saint-Michel ahead? Dude, will you be my friend?
I’ve done some research and discovered that boat owners have no lives. That’s because they spend all their free time working on their boats. Here’s just a sampling of the typical tasks they do after every time they take their boat for a spin:
Top off the oil, if needed; wash the hull and deck; check the engine, battery, propeller, electrical lines, and bilge pump to ensure all components are working properly. Oh, and don’t forget to inspect the engine mount screw clamps to make sure they’re secure. While you’re at it, you might want to take a look at the water intake to be sure it’s not blocked. And be sure to flush the engine and propellers to eliminate saltwater, sand, dirt and other debris. I’ll skip the other 27 steps you need to do EVERY TIME you take your boat out, because I almost fell asleep after that last sentence.
So, no, boat ownership is not for me. Let some other sap pay $100,000 for a 40-foot cruiser. I just want to spend some quality time bonding with them… on their 40-foot cruiser – ideally while eating fresh lobster and chowing down on a tasty cheese platter and Godiva chocolates. (Not the dark chocolate, please.)
Perhaps you are that sap, I mean, fine person. If so, I want you to know that if you feel a need to drone on endlessly about how hard it is staying on top of all the regular maintenance needed to keep your boat in working order, as your new best friend, I’m willing to listen. Oh, and I’m a size LARGE, in case you need to know my lifejacket size for when you take me out water skiing.
I’m looking for a new friend. I’m not picky. I mean, it’s not like the only kind of people I seek out as friends are rich people with yachts that comfortably seat eight. Who do you think I am, anyway? No, I’m willing to keep an open mind. I’d even consider starting a friendship with someone who only owns a Jet Ski – but only if you have two of them. I’m not riding tandem behind you. Buddy, you need to give me some space.
I thought I could be friends with this guy. But I was wrong. He’s a very nice person And very smart. Just one problem. He owns a gorgeous 60-ft. sailboat. I was looking for a friend with a powerboat. Sorry, buddy. It just was never going to work out.
I’m still looking for that close friend. I know they’re out there. Perhaps you could be that special person. If you think you might like to become my friend, just email me a photo of you with your boat – or a photo of just your boat is sufficient, actually.
But perhaps I’m being a little unreasonable. After all, why should I care whether a person has a boat or not? I mean, that sounds rather superficial, doesn’t it? Okay, on further reflection, I don’t care whether or not you have a nice boat. I’m more than willing to make friends with non-boat owners – assuming they have their own private plane, that is.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Recently I competed in a pickleball tournament. That’s me on the far right. As you can plainly see, I WON A MEDAL. Admittedly, mine was for 25th place, but my wife doesn’t need to know that. If she asks you, back up my story that I took FIRST PLACE.
Recently, I signed up for my very first pickleball tournament. Previous to that the last time I participated in a formal athletic competition of any kind, Richard Nixon was our nation’s Commander-in-Chief. In case you’re curious what that previous sporting event was, it was a high school swim meet. I did the backstroke. I came in fourth, barely missing establishing a new school record for fastest time in the 100-meter backstroke by a mere 57 seconds. That was fifty years ago.
I signed up for our local pickleball association’s Labor Day Pickleball Tournament. I decided to throw my hat into the ring in part because in the official promotion on the website I read that several winners would win a new CAR. It was only after I arrived at the tournament that on a closer re-read, I discovered that I had misread the part about “several players will win a new CAP.” I’m starting to think I might be slightly dyslexic, I’m not sure.
The entry fee was only $20 – an extremely reasonable price for the opportunity to spend three and a half hours being repeatedly reminded how much I suck at pickleball. The doubles tournament format was Round Robin, which means for each new game you’re paired with a different partner. This afforded me the chance to meet lots of new people, not to mention enjoy playing seven different matches against a wide variety of competitors who took turns demonstrating how far superior they were at this sport than I was. Thanks, everybody! You all taught me the greatest sports lesson of all – humility.
At first, I felt pretty good about my chances. I was returning almost every shot my opponents sent my way. But then I was informed that this was just the pre-game warm-up, when people were supposed to gently dink the ball over the net. Once the games officially got underway, I was caught off guard by how hard the other players routinely hit the ball at me. It was almost as if all my opponents deliberately wanted me to lose. That’s not very sportsmanlike, if you ask me.
This may come as a shock to some of my regular readers, but, as with most sports, I’m not that good at pickleball. Over time, I’ve concluded that my primary role in just about any match I play in any sport is to make my opponent feel much better about their own athletic prowess. I am very good at this. So, no, I didn’t win the tournament. My dreams of winning a cap, much less a car, vanished quickly.
In my defense, the only reason I did not don the King’s Crown – or Queen’s Crown (just trying to avoid accusations of coming across as sexist) – as the tournament champion at the conclusion of the event was my relative lack of speed, power, accuracy, endurance, or any semblance of a strategy. Personally, I feel I more than made up for my severe athletic deficiencies with my above-average penmanship, good posture, and noteworthy personal hygiene. But apparently the judges didn’t take any of these into consideration in awarding the crown. So unfair.
In retrospect, I’m confident I would have fared better in the final rankings had I only remembered to stop at the bank beforehand to take out cash to bribe the judges. I believe I could have swayed at least a couple of them to alter the results had I just slipped a couple of crisp Andrew Jackson’s into their pockets.
This is me during one of the seven matches I played in this round robin doubles event. I remember that at this moment I was thinking, “I sure hope they serve ice cream at this event.” My partner was probably thinking, “How did I get paired with this loser?”
I’m pleased to report that in this tourney, everyone was a winner. Even me! Every participant was awarded a medal. In my case, I believe mine must have been for “perfect attendance.” That’s the only plausible explanation I can come up with for how I earned a medal. Of course, when I got home, and my wife saw the medal around my neck, I may have slightly exaggerated when I told her my medal was for First Place. For the first time in a long time, she was actually proud of me. Please don’t tell her I lied, okay? I’d hate to disappoint her.
“Then does this mean you won the new car you told me about in the brochure?” she asked excitedly. I didn’t have the heart to deflate her enthusiasm by explaining that I had misread the word “cap” as “car.” So, I told her, “Yes, that’s right, honey. It should arrive in four to six weeks.” By then I’m sure she will have forgotten all about it. Problem avoided.
I learned several valuable lessons from my first official sport competition since I began shaving back in 1973. First, it’s not just about winning. It’s about showing up and participating. Second, if I ever enter another pickleball tournament, I probably should take a few lessons to improve my game. And third, I should know better than to insult the judges by trying to pay them off with $20 bills. I’ll need to step up my game and offer them a few Benjamin’s instead. Those judges aren’t cheap.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Check out this photo of Bert and Margaret Elsinger. They used to be such nice people. Then they got sucked into a dark, mysterious cult – the cult of Pickleball. Sadly, once elderly people join this cult, they rarely escape.
[Author’s Note: As a nationally recognized expert on mental health and the proud owner of a doctor’s white medical jacket costume I bought on Amazon.com for a Halloween party a few years ago, I periodically share emails I receive from some of my patients in hopes it may shed light on an issue others may be grappling with. This is one of those letters. – TEJ ]
Dear Doctor Tim:
I hope you can help me. I’m extremely worried about my elderly parents. They’re both in their mid-seventies. Until six months ago, they seemed to lead normal, albeit boring, lives. My mom, Margaret, spent most of her days sewing dresses for her grandchildren and reading romance novels. My father, Bert, liked to go fishing and do the daily word Jumble in the newspaper.
But something’s changed lately, and I’m worried about them. I think they may have joined a cult. I know it sounds crazy but hear me out. They’ve both totally given up their normal hobbies and appear to have compiled a completely new group of friends – strangers I’ve never seen nor heard about before. No, they haven’t shaved their heads and thankfully, they’re not speaking in tongues or anything like that. But they’ve definitely changed.
The other day I saw them holding these paddles and swinging them at each other wildly. Do you think they might have joined some freaky S & M cult that gets off on spanking? I really don’t know what they’re up to, but I think I need them to get a mental health evaluation. They disappear in the middle of the day for hours at a time, several days a week. And when they head off, they never tell me where they’re going. One of them usually shouts something creepy like, “I’m going to spank your mom again!” What the heck is happening, Dr. Tim?
Lately I’ve noticed that they’re using words I’ve never heard them utter in the past. Words like “Fake dink” and “doing an Erne” and talking about some guy called “Nasty Nelson.” Sounds like a bad dude. Honestly, it’s like they’re speaking in code or something. And just this morning, they got into a heated argument when my mom seemed to be getting on my dad’s case shouting, “You’re always in the kitchen, Bert!” Dr. Tim, I’ve known my father for fifty years, and one thing I know is he’s NEVER in the kitchen. He feels cooking is a wife’s job. (I know. Don’t get me started.) Do you think this might be a sign of early stage dementia?
They used to watch BritBox murder mysteries every evening, but now they sit in front of the computer and watch YouTube videos about how to make pickles or something. Obsessively. I mean, seriously, Dr. Tim, how many ways are there to pickle something? I think they’re losing it. I worry they might be in some bizarre cult. But why now? Aren’t they too old to join a cult?
Dr. Tim, is there anything I can do to pull them out of this dark mysterious sect they appear to have been sucked into before it’s too late? – Signed, Concerned in Camano
Dear Concerned,
I appreciate your sharing your understandable concern about your parents. I won’t sugarcoat this. Your suspicions are correct. Your elderly parents, Margaret and Bert, have in fact entered into a cult. The cult of Pickleball. The good news is, as far as I can tell from my research, it’s a relatively innocuous, non-violent cult, except for Nasty Nelson. But I must warn you, they can be aggressive in their recruitment tactics, sending out legions of their members to indoctrinate unsuspecting folks like your parents. Tragically, in recent years, I’ve seen several close friends get swept up into their strange, obsessed world.
“Pickleballers” as the cult members weirdly refer to themselves, often appear at first glance to be positive, friendly, and engaging people. But be careful. This is how they lure you in. They’ll tell naïve senior citizens things like “it’s a great physical activity for your age” or “it’s a fun way to meet new people.” What they don’t tell you is that all those new people you’ll meet are…. PICKLEBALLERS! And they can be insufferable, rambling on about their current DUPR rating (don’t ask – you don’t want to know, trust me), or they’ll compare pickleball paddles for no apparent reason.
Check out this couple, Elsie and Art Claxton, proudly wearing their 1st place medals for their age group. Sadly, ever since a “friend” recruited them into this cult, it’s all they ever talk about. Ask Elsie about the weather and she’ll answer by explaining why you “can’t stand in the kitchen” – whatever that means. Their adult children are worried sick about them. Such a sad story.
I’ve lost some close friends to this enigmatic sect. Good people, normal people, who once they picked up that paddle somehow could no longer talk about anything else.
It’s extremely difficult to de-program someone once they’ve become indoctrinated into this bewitched world. Some families have tried to help their elderly parents withdraw from the sport by introducing them to shuffleboard or lawn bowling or darts, sort of the way medical professionals try to wean addicts off of heroin by substituting methadone. But in most cases, the septuagenarians just can’t handle the cold turkey withdrawal from this sport they desperately crave. And before you know it, they quickly lapse back into the cult, cheerfully saying odd expressions like “I’ll dink to that!”
Trust me. I know how alluring this game can be. Because I’m a victim, too. I was recently invited to play a pickup game. I had no idea what I was getting into. And before long, I was hooked. I wish you luck in getting your parents back. The odds are not in your favor, I have to tell you. Just ask my kids.
Let me know how it goes. I have to wrap this up. I can’t be late for my 1pm pickleball match. It’s a round robin. Many of my new best friends will be there. And one of them, a great guy named Bert, just bought a new ONIX Z5 graphite carbon fiber pickleball paddle that’s USA Pickleball Approved. I confess, I’m really jealous.
– Dr. Tim
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
