Retirement comes with many expectations. You’re supposed to travel, maybe buy an RV, and, most of all, embrace pickleball like it’s a f$%king spiritual awakening. From the moment I handed in my office badge, it felt like the world was ushering me straight to the nearest rec center, paddle in hand, ready to join the pickleball masses. Let me be clear: F$%k Pickleball.

You know what real sports feel like? I do. I was a weight lifter before I could legally drive. I played basketball and baseball, and ran cross-country until my lungs burned. Then I became a Marine, where “exercise” meant five-mile runs with fifty pounds of gear digging into my shoulders and combat boots that weighed as much as a bowling ball. I know what it means to push your body. I know what it means to sweat, to ache, to compete for real.

Now, apparently, I’m supposed to trade all that in for a plastic paddle and a wiffle ball. I get that some people do genuinely have fun with it—there’s a low-impact accessibility and a certain quick camaraderie that can draw people in, and laughter seems to come easy on those courts. But for me, calling pickleball a “sport” is a stretch. It’s the athletic equivalent of playing ping-pong while standing up and occasionally shuffling side to side. The only muscle group you’re really working is your willingness to tolerate small talk and the sound of plastic clacking on plastic.

Honestly, I’m convinced you’d get more exercise standing on the court opening jars of pickles and eating them one by one. At least you’d work your forearms. Watching grown adults pat themselves on the back after a “grueling” twenty-minute game of pickleball makes me want to drop and do push-ups just to remind myself what movement feels like.

And don’t get me started on the social aspect. Pickleball isn’t just a game — it’s Facebook, but in person and with more polyester. Everyone’s watching, everyone’s talking, and everyone’s carefully keeping score of who’s in their clique today. You can’t just play and go home. No, you have to hear about every court “Karen’s” latest ordeal with the waitress at Cracker Barrel or the neighbor’s dog that took a dump too close to her begonias. It’s relentless.

I can’t escape the “Karen Effect.” Every match is a front-row seat to grievances, snubs, and whispered drama. The court isn’t a field of glory — it’s a soap opera with sweatbands. I used to think group fitness was about pushing each other to be better. Now it’s about who can out-complain whom, and who brought the best gluten-free snacks.

So here I am, banished to this bizarre retirement limbo where the game is less about sport and more about surviving the social gauntlet. I thought retirement would mean freedom, not a sentence to endless small talk, watered-down competition, and forced enthusiasm for a game that wouldn’t challenge a third grader. If this is what everyone thinks retirement is supposed to look like, they’re missing all the good stuff. Give me a real mountain hike, early morning fishing, volunteering with veterans, or working up a real sweat with some solo basketball at sunrise. There are a thousand ways to feel alive without a paddle in sight.

I refuse to make this my rite of passage. If retirement means I have to pretend pickleball is thrilling, count me out. I want to spend my time doing something that makes my heart race for the right reasons, not because I’m worried I’ll get cornered by another story about someone’s upcoming knee surgery. Luckily, I’ve figured out how to find my own tribe. I’m planning to start hanging around the local basketball court at sunrise, and it didn’t take long to spot a few familiar faces who looked like they’d rather sweat than swap recipes. Sometimes, I’ll spot someone jogging solo and stop them to strike up a conversation about anything but pickleball. It turns out there are plenty of us pickleball haters out here, quietly avoiding the herd, ready to bond over real effort and the occasional irreverent joke. If you’re searching for your kind of people, skip the organized social hours and look for the folks doing their own thing—the ones who show up early, who’d rather swap stories about bruises than brunches. Sometimes it just takes being honest about what you enjoy, and the right friends will find you.

God, please spare me from the retirement pickleball trap. If this is what I’ve got to look forward to, maybe I’ll just go for a swim — with or without the combat boots. At least then I’ll remember what it feels like to really exercise.