🏓 Could Sports Be the Holy Grail of Youth? (Or Just the Best Excuse to Wear a Bra That Could Double as Body Armor?) Let’s talk about aging. Not the “wine gets better” kind — the “why did I just pull a muscle putting on socks” kind. When I turned 60 this year, I had a moment. Not a crisis — more like a WTF whisper from the universe: “Hey, remember when you used to be competitive, athletic, fierce?” Yeah. I remembered. Vividly. I was an athlete. Hockey, tennis, soccer, fastball — I didn’t just play sports in my 20s, 30s, and early 40s. I competed. I trained. I had calves that could crack walnuts and a confidence that could crack glass ceilings. Then came: 💍 Marriage 👶 Kids 🦠 A pandemic 💔 A divorce (Yes, I collected the full set of adulting milestones.) And somewhere in the shuffle… I stopped playing. 🥒 But Then… Pickleball. Yes, pickleball. The name is ridiculous. The game is revolutionary. It’s like tennis and ping pong had a baby — and that baby saved my life. I started playing. Then I started loving it. Pickleball reignited something in me. It got me moving, sweating, laughing, trash-talking, and yes — feeling young again. Not “I’m 25 and invincible” young, but “I’ve survived some serious sh*t and still look good in a skort” young. Recently, I played with a mother-daughter duo — the mom was 89 years old and absolutely crushing it on the court. She had style, sass, and a killer forehand. And I thought: If this is what aging can look like... SIGN. ME. UP.