There comes a moment in every man's life when he must choose between physical activities that leave him breathless, sweaty, and wondering if he should have stretched more. At 83, I've discovered that both sex and pickleball share remarkably similar warning labels.
The Bathroom Paradox
Let's begin with life's most reliable countdown timer: the bladder. There are precisely two settings available to those of us in the "distinguished" demographic—too often and not often enough. Both present tactical challenges whether you're on a pickleball court or anywhere else requiring sustained attention. I'll spare you the details. You either know, or you will.
The Two-Handed Grip
I now hold my coffee cup with both hands. This is apparently traditional in several Asian cultures, a sign of respect and mindfulness. For me, it's a sign that my morning caffeine shouldn't end up on my shirt. The pickleball paddle, mercifully, was designed for this exact grip. Finally, a sport that meets me where I am.
The Pharmaceutical Plot Twist
After decades of doctors pushing pills at me like Halloween candy, I've reached the promised land: the age bracket where they've simply stopped recommending most of them. "At your age," they say, with that particular look, "the side effects outweigh the benefits." I choose to interpret this as a clean bill of health rather than actuarial surrender.
The Vision Thing
Plot twist: I see better now than I did at 25. Lens replacements have given me 20/20 vision after a lifetime of astigmatism. I can finally see the pickleball clearly. I can also see my opponents' expressions of pity when I miss it anyway. Progress has its price.
The Spare Parts Department
Knee replacements. Abdominal surgery that, shall we say, shortened the path of resistance. Wheelchair assistance from curb to gate to curb at airports—a service I've learned to accept rather than resent. I am becoming less original equipment and more aftermarket restoration. A classic, if you will, with upgraded components.
The Misdiagnosis
And then there was the Parkinson's scare. A neurologist watched me walk across his office, observed some tremor, and delivered his verdict with the confidence of a man who'd seen it all. The machines disagreed. The DaTscan came back clean. Turns out sophisticated imaging is considerably smarter than a doctor watching you shuffle to a chair.
I don't have Parkinson's. I have age—which, despite its many indignities, remains preferable to the alternative.
The Lady at the Courts
I was sitting between games with a friend when a nice-looking lady walked by.
"I haven't seen you here before," she said.
"Well, it's a long story, but I've been playing here for years."
"Health issues?"
I told her it would take a few days to elaborate. Wryly.
"Well, I hope you're listening to your doctors," she said.
At which point my friend interjected that her mother had no use for medicines or doctors. The questioning lady then lectured—almost to the point of berating—that my friend must change her mother's attitude about Western Medicine.
My friend's response, word for word: "My mother lived to be 107."
A Modest Proposal
My friends, I have a solution to the healthcare crisis in the Grand Old USA: Don't take medicines and don't go to hospitals.
I say this as an actuary who spent decades providing services to those whose fortunes are made—not necessarily earned—as perpetuators of the American Dream. We have built an entire industry with a singular drive: create revenue (substitute: salaries) paid for by the naïve middle and lower income strata.
Twenty percent or more of our GDP goes to healthcare services. Do some homework—or dare we admit we don't do homework anymore? We rely on Fox or CNN or equally "objective" sources. Meanwhile, the military, technology, and other supposedly important sectors pale by comparison.
The Verdict
So: sex or pickleball?
The honest answer is that both require more recovery time than they used to, both benefit from a willing partner who understands the limitations, and both are infinitely more appealing than sitting on the couch waiting for the final whistle.
At 83, I've completed 22 marathons, paddled solo across the Catalina and Molokai Channels, founded multiple companies, and I'm currently building AI safety technology because ChatGPT lies and somebody should do something about it.
The cautionary tale isn't about choosing between pleasures. It's about the danger of stopping altogether.
Don't lament. Engage.
Even if you need both hands.