To get better, get weird
Falling crazy in love with pickleball brought Matthew Perry joy. Pursuing a passion obsessively could save you, too.
I had no time to walk today.
I was coming off a particularly overthinky week and behind on almost everything. I couldn’t afford another week playing perpetual catchup. Taking time to walk wasn’t an available option for me.
But then Alexa sent an alert about a freeze coming in 36 hours and I poked my head outside. It was a sunny 83 degrees, likely our last day in the 80s for a very long time. I decided that the time I lost to a walk would be more than offset by a reset in mood and inject some structure into my day.
I also felt that if I could take a walk in the autumn sunshine, I should. Matthew Perry’s shocking death and the public emotional outpouring of love were weighing on me. How could someone who (on TV) went through what I went through at the same age just not be here anymore? “Friends” was an irresistible preview of the life that was waiting for you once you figured it all out, after you got your first real job or moved to the city or found your person, even though we knew the size of Monica’s apartment was absurd and there was no way Rachel could afford that wardrobe as a waitress. But what rang exquisitely true was Chandler Bing, a singular character of deadpan sarcasm and quarterlife vulnerability played with genius comedic timing by Matty (hey, we’re all friends) Perry. Why he never made a go at standup we’ll never know.
Perry’s Chandler saw through everything (his soulless corporate job, being passed over by women for Joey) but churned out quips lest anyone see through him. He was self-deprecating in direct proportion to how uncomfortable life made him. “I’m not great at the advice,” he cracked, a total lie. “Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?”
For someone who turns into a Catskills comic in social situations (I talk, paradoxically, so that no one learns anything about me), it was a consciousness-rocking shift to consider my flaws might be endearing. At long last, reassurance – in parasocial form, but no less real – that being smart and awkward wasn’t a romantic death sentence. If you had asked me between 1994 and 2004 if I were a Monica, a Rachel, or a Phoebe, I would have flipped my chunky Anistonesque highlights from my face and said a Chandler.
But that lovable insecurity turned dark last year when Perry published his memoir, “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing,” revealing hitherto unknown despair, suffering, and a hellish fight for sobriety. He now-famously wrote – presciently, as if writing his own obituary – about wanting to be known for his efforts to help others struggling with addiction rather than for “Friends.”
Perry wrote unflinchingly about the harrowing toll years of drug and alcohol abuse had on his health and of the many relationships that slipped through his fingers. He hoped to be a father one day. He was so determined that his pain have a purpose, he wrote the memoir himself and turned it in before deadline. But the most optimistic, goofy, life-affirming revelation was his obsession with pickleball.
He hired pros to coach him and wanted to build a home court. A former junior tennis champ in Canada, Perry was competitive and played pickleball almost daily. He crowed over unbelievable shots. He played the day he died.
He introduced people in recovery to the sport. He told stories and had everyone on the court laughing. It gave him joy and a routine. “He would sweat and feel good and accomplished. That feeling bled into the rest of his day,” his personal coach said. “He got in better shape. He had fun.”
So I laced up and headed out to do what makes me happier than it should (I mean, it’s walking). There was sunshine and gorgeous leaves and even a train. The walk gave me the idea for this post and a half-dozen others. It was a walk that would rate among the best walks ever, autumn edition. Like any obsession, it makes little sense to others, but it brings me joy.
It brought me joy the summer I trained to walk 60 miles in three days for charity, walking eight hours on the weekends, wearing out sneakers in weeks, not months, covering my blistered feet in Vaseline and baby powder. I could have written a check instead of sleeping in a tent that weekend, just to get up and walk some more, but it felt good. Training for that huge goal gave me a routine and a sense of accomplishment.
Following a passion headlong is going to look weird. It will leave you less time to do things you probably shouldn’t anyway, like staying up late overthinking, and it might cause people to snicker. But you’ll never know what you’re capable of, or how much joy is out there waiting for you, if you practice moderation.
Playing pickleball obsessively saved Matthew Perry’s life in a way playing it once a week never could. Your passion could grant you years, too, if you let yourself get weird with it. It might just be that having an unhealthy obsession is the unlock to mental health.
Do you love something as much as Matthew Perry loved pickleball? What will you have wanted to do the day you die?