Good Thing I Like Sweet Pickles

Momservations: He may not be cheating, but “side dishes” come in many different forms.

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He left me four times this week. Came home from work, changed, and said, “Don’t wait for me for dinner. I’ll eat when I get back.”

So since my husband skipped out on me again, unsuccessfully containing his excitement to leave, I invited my mom over to eat with me the Salisbury Steak in mushroom sauce, Bernsteins dressing steamed artichokes, mashed potatoes with Ranch, and warm bread.

If that mouth-watering home-cooked meal wasn’t enough to keep him home, maybe I should have made it in something a little more risqué than the outfit I just cleaned the house in.

Doubt it.

He’s got it bad for this one. Admits thinking about doing it all the time. Wakes up in the morning excited with something to look forward to—that doesn’t include me. He’s blowing up our Amazon account to outfit himself perfectly for his blatant rendezvous.

Back oft you pickleballers. Sweet Pickle is all mine.

Pickleball…you are a husband stealer and a bitch.

If I didn’t plan a date with him and tell him I already bought the movie tickets for tonight, he no doubt would’ve left me again, on a Friday night, no less.

Because there is always a game waiting. There is always someone willing to play. I know because he can’t resist checking his phone to see who is available to play at the local courts down the street from us on Eastern Ave.

I don’t know if I should blame his buddy, Mike, from introducing him to this seductive sport that combines elements of badminton, tennis, and table tennis or my son for leaving to go to college and driving his father into the arms of any willing paddle player as a distraction from the empty bedroom.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that he went from first playing one night a week on Thursdays, to Tuesday/Thursday, to Tues/Thurs/Sunday, he then discovered a more beautiful court…with lights.

That pickleball bitch took him from me this last Monday and Wednesday nights too.

“Come play with me,” he offered when I let my hurt show that he was leaving again instead of being with me.

“No, this is your thing. I’ll just hold you back,” I said putting up a weak denial, hoping he would fight for me. “Besides, you love playing with Mike, River, Shaker, Gayle, Kimberly, helmet-guy, Level 5 guy, and that old Philippian gal who always woops your butt.”

“Yeah…they’re a great bunch of pickleballers,” he smiled thinking about the new friends he was meeting on a weekly basis. I could see the stress from work melting off him as he thought about his new favorite distraction.

That’s when I realized he needed this. I wanted him to be happy. And if I couldn’t make him happy all by myself, then I wanted pickleball to be my wing-woman.

“You go, Honey. Go play pickleball. Have a good time. And make sure you beat Shaker this time.”

He clamped his paddles over his ears and squeezed his eyes closed. “Don’t mention Shaker! Get him out of my head! I don’t want him in my head!”

He then slung his pickleball bag over his shoulder and gave me an appreciative hug and kiss for letting him whisk off again to go play guilt-free pickleball. As he put his hand on the door to leave, I stopped him.

“Wait! Since this is your new passion, you need a nickname.” I came back over to him, stood on my tiptoes to reach his lips, grabbed his butt in my hands and gave it a squeeze as I kissed him.

“You go get ‘em, Sweet Pickle.”

#PickleballWidow   #EmptyNesting   #SweetPickle

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