I came out of Snowmagedden OK. The snow melted, spring hit with a whisper and baseball season began. I’m 75 years old and am chemically addicted to a married, gorgeous, 26-year-old rookie MLB player. No amount of gin martinis can sway me, although he hasn’t made it to first base for the last six games.
I thought, perhaps, the problem was the sparse goatee he was trying to cultivate or the new swaggering gold chain. But he has shaved off the facial hair and the chain is tucked away, and he still can’t hit one darned ball! It breaks my heart and brings me to tears.
The real problem, however, is my husband of 50 years. The curmudgeon is threatening to turn in the cable box if I don’t get ahold of myself and stop crying over the martini olives. During the seventh-inning stretch and after a six-pack, he’s hammering me about my ridiculous emotional attachment to a rookie center fielder. He just doesn’t get it!
I’ve sat through a decade of women’s mud wrestling without one complaint from me. Why won’t he have some compassion for my secret innocent love affair with a baseball cutie?
Dodger Groupie in Crestline
As I read your letter, I am watching the ball game and screaming, “Just hit it!” Yep, lover boy strikes out again.
Don’t give your heart away to a newbie loser. Ditch the nervous egomaniac that strikes out in shame. Stop the moaning and groaning.
Next to you on the couch is the consistent at-bat winner. He’s the slugger bringing in the grand slam. He’s the bobble head of your life. Bring him another PBR and enjoy your hot dogs! Is your martini gin or vodka, shaken or stirred?
Send your questions for Sidney to [email protected] or by snail mail to Dear Sidney, The Alpine Mountaineer, P.O. Box 4572, Crestline, CA 92325.
This advice is intended for entertainment purposes only. No animals were harmed in the writing of this column.