Monday, 27 May 2019

A widow by any other name is still a widow – DeSoto Times-Tribune

There’s a sports widow, fishing widow, “pooter” widow and “grass widow. If you don’t know what grass widow is, just your great-grandmother. It’s a divorced woman. Oh, shame!

”Football widow or fishing widow. It’s all the same. Men embrace extracurricular activities with gusto. It gives them definition outside the walls of marriage. Am I cynical? Nun-unn, not me.

Spectator sports of any sort do not toot my horn. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I am. I cannot get excited about a bunch of folks in plaid shorts puttering around the golf course trying to tease a little white ball out of a man-made sand trap.

(Joke from the Comedy Zone) Four guys were out on the golf course. As one of them was teeing off at the 10th hole, which was next to the highway, they saw a funeral procession go by. Instead of teeing off, the guy removed his cap and placed it on his chest until the funeral had passed. At this point, the other three said, “You know, the was the most touching thing I’ve ever seen.” And the guy answers, “Well, I was married to her for 35 years. It was the least I could do!”

Young men in football uniforms stir up a little more interest – not in the game but in the lovely physical specimens strutting across the field. (OK, I’m old, not dead). 

I’ve never been interested enough in the game to even read the rules.

I’ve had friends get a crick in their neck trying to keep up with a fast-paced tennis game. Nope, holds no fascination for me. Hard benches, hot sun and blistered nose.

Men’s basketball games fit in the same category as far as I’m concerned. About the only thing that catches my attention in a basketball game is the close-ups of nasty, hairy armpits. Eeawww! You can’t not look. It’s like a roadside accident. 

See, most people don’t play sports because it’s that much freaking fun. But, it’s work. Ask any dyed-in-the-wool athlete, most of them have a love/hate relationship with it and it becomes an obsession. But, they couldn’t imagine their life without it. It is part of them. It’s what they live for. They live for the practices, parties, cheers, long bus rides, invitationals, countless pairs of different types of shoes, water, Gatorade and coaches you hate but appreciate. They live for the way it feels when they beat the other team, and knowing those two extra sprints they ran in practice were worth it. They live for the way they become a family with their team, they live for the countless songs they sing in their head while training all those hours. They live for the competition, they live for the friends, the practices, the memories, the pain, it’s who they are. And then, there’s the champagne celebration.

There are all sorts of sports that can put strain on a marriage when participated in with abandon. Take fishing and hunting. I know a few fishing widows and hunting widows. Definition of a fishing/hunting widow: A woman alone in the world without the benefit of his life insurance.

Good friend of mine said she wished her husband had a mistress. Then she could go beat the poop out of her with an oven mitt and solve the problem. But she could not compete with a big, calm lake and a bass boat.

There’s even an Angler Widow’s Club on the Internet. Seems to be doing a pretty brisk traffic.

See, that wasn’t my problem. I did my best to get my last husband interested in fishing and hunting. I so longed to be a fishing widow. Alas, no such luck. I was doomed to have him underfoot every hour of every day. Sigh — nothing ever works out for me. Problem was not solved until my maiden name was restored. Another interesting story — but it probably would not be advisable to put into print. I tend to spit out bad words when I get on that subject.

DALE  LILLY  is Lifestyles Editor and can be reached at