Two months in and I’m addicted, riding the pickleball wave and hooked on the feeling.
At 54, I’m generally a self-proclaimed “hot mess” thanks to menopause – AKA my surly sidekick who snuck up out of nowhere, hit me like a runaway train, and left me creaky and cranky but too tired to shoot up a flare. Truth be told, I hit a wall and I wasn’t embracing “the change” with open arms (more like tightly coiled fists). Mood swings, hot flashes and weight gain (why the hell is it all in my midsection?) – all the usual suspects. Not to mention that it’s nearly impossible to meet new people these days (especially single and in my 50s) when we work remotely, shop online and drink at home. And don’t get me started with online dating.
“You just need to join Meetup, Shanti”: I swear, if one more of my married friends suggest that I join a Meetup to find my tribe or romantic partner, I might blow a gasket (and seeing as how I’m halfway there with all the hot flashing, they better run).
I found myself at a loss, mourning for those good ol’ days when we met people in person – in bars, clubs, at work or school, in the grocery store and occasionally at the movie theatre. You could see the person, hear the person, smell the person, and if you “got lucky”, taste the person. There’s just something about observing someone in their natural habitat that gives you such valuable (and sometimes immediate) insight into how they interact with others and with their surroundings. Alas, if only I could replace the countless hours of vapid texting prior to meeting a potential Bumble match with just one hour of hanging out “in the wild”, I might actually want to get lucky.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t about to dust off my Doc Martens (yes, I’m a Gen Xer) and relive the glory days of crowded bar hopping and sweaty clubbing. No way.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m gleefully tucked in by 10pm most nights and only drink on the weekends (this is a work in progress). Plus, the very thought of going out after 9pm exhausts me.
But I wasn’t ready to succumb to a life of binge-watching Netflix in bed with my “midlife ménage à trois” – my iPad, iPhone and Kindle – while my mood (and my midsection) plummeted to a place of no return.
I needed a sign. More like a push off the cliff.
It was a stranger in the ice-cream aisle (don’t judge me) who tipped me off to a pickleball event at my local park, a casual “round robin”, followed by a happy hour.
What? Live humans (strangers even) coming together to play a random game, drink some wine and hopefully enjoy a nosh or two?
What a concept.
Wait, I’m confused. We all don’t live on Planet Zoom?
“Will there be snacks?” I ask her, thinking to myself: what’s the catch? Is this a pyramid scheme? Amway? Ponzi? Is she luring me to an isolated pickleball court to sell me a timeshare?
Or worse, is it some sort of cult?
Run, Shanti, run! Drop the gelato and get out while you can.
“Yes, there’ll be food, it’s a potluck,” she says, smiling. “And we have extra paddles.”
Paddles and a potluck?
Oh, God, is it some kind of kinky Tupperware party?
“Just go and see what it’s all about, Shanti,” I hear my mom’s reassuring voice in my head. “You might actually enjoy yourself once you’re there, and you can always leave.” Although she passed away more than 20 years ago, my mom still nudges me along on a weekly basis (and she’s usually right). But pickleball? Pardon the pun, Mom, but this one might be a long shot.
Two hours later and I’m euphoric, high on pickleball fumes and wondering where this game has been all my life.
Admittedly, I was reluctant at first, dragging myself to the park with my assorted cheese platter – tired, hungry, and thinking: “Just get this over with, Shanti, so you can go home, crack open the gelato and watch Bridgerton.”
A woman named Linda intercepts my arm and ushers me onto the court.
“Welcome to the group, Shanti. Did you stretch?”
Stretch? For a few games of pickleball, seriously?
“I’m good, Linda, I stretched at home.” I didn’t.
“It’s a good idea to stretch before you play, Shanti,” she reiterates, firmly.
Linda is 73 years old with a new hip and a visor the size of a small awning – she means business.
“How hard can this be?” I whisper, anxiously sizing up the crowd while searching for the snack table. “The average age looks about 70.” I got this.
Boy, was I wrong.
Four games into the round robin and I’m exhausted. So exhausted that I feign a rock in my shoe and let out a loud yelp, proceeded by a lengthy shoelace-tying session on the bench – a cluster of amateur dramatics all aimed at buying me some much-needed time to rest.
“Come on, Shanti, we’re halfway there!” Linda encourages me. “You got this!”
“Halfway there” – is she nuts?
Can I just have a glass of wine already and call it a day?
I hobble back to the serving line, weary and wobbling but determined to rally (I’m food-motivated). “Good serve, Shanti!” It wasn’t. I have almost zero clue how to play but everyone is so encouraging and patient, volleying nonstop affirmations at me despite most of my balls ending up in the net, or on the neighboring court. “Good shot, Shanti!” “Nice try, Shanti!”
I admit, their positivity was perplexing at first, like “What kind of Kool-Aid are they drinking?” perplexing. But I get it now.
As we rounded game eight, I found my second wind (more like my first, but I’ll take it). I was energized, completely absorbed in the game, and zoned out in the moment. I forgot all about Bridgerton, my arthritic toe, the gelato or how sore I was going to be the next day because I was too cocky to stretch (more like stupid). FYI, it took two days, a heating pad and six Advil to recover from that initial session, but with every game it gets a little easier.
Two months ago, I didn’t know a “dink” from a “dillball” or a “flapjack” from a “falafel”, let alone when to keep out of “the kitchen”, and I still don’t know how to keep score to save my life (in my defense, pickleball scoring is oddly confusing). But hey, I figure any game that involves this many references to food must be my jam.
The pickleball floodgates opened fast and they opened wide – I found a community, a sense of purpose and belonging, live humans to interact with any day of the week and, more often than not, snacks.
I know I’m a little late to the party, but boy, I’m glad I made it.
And yes, Linda, I stretched.
Shanti L Nelson is a writer and photographer
