Pool Halls Save Marriages

By the time my wife limped down the stairs at 7 a.m. with her hair in pigtails, a Cookie Monster Band-Aid on each knee and a baby hanging from her boob, I was already halfway through building a Lego helicopter while watching Power Rangers with our other tiny human. My greatest fear had come true: I was married to Strawberry Shortcake. We needed to become full-fledged adults again.

Before having kids, my wife and I used to hold down the beer-stained pool table for hours at our local dive bar, and so we revived the tradition. When we need a break, we lock the kids in the garage—sorry, I mean, get them a babysitter—and my wife puts on one of her old Pixies tees and skinny jeans. We run the tables just like we used to, slaughtering frat boy after frat boy in dollar games of eight ball. Inevitably some of them hit on her. It's the kind of thing that used to make me insecure, but if I'm honest with myself, I like the idea of a younger guy making a move. She feels young and childless for a moment, and I feel like I'm married to a young, childless woman. And if I'm picking favorites, the post-closing-time sex is wilder with this alter ego than the one with pigtails._—Jason Good _