Category: Health & Wellness

Sickbed reading

My cravings for oysters on the half shell are over. I apparently picked up a food-borne illness during our trip to Tomales Bay. Dale had a touch of it, too, but I’ve lost five pounds in three days. I’m glad the last ones I will ever eat tasted good at the time.

Oysters have always been risky. We stopped eating warm water oysters on the half shell many years ago. After reading up on oysters and the vibrio infection resulting in part from warmer waters, I see no reason to eat them raw anymore. As most of us except maybe Trump might know, the ocean isn’t getting any colder. And I’m not getting any younger, so it’s time to limit the risk.

Good news? I’ve had some quality reading time. I was trying to characterize what I like to read, and it’s hard. I enjoy many different genres but lean toward crime fiction. While I don’t like it cozy and prefer dark and noir, I avoid excessive violence. Let’s just get that murder over and done with so we can find out who did it. My favorites feature a private detective with rough edges and a complicated personal life. Probably surrounded by lowlifes, grifters and cons.  

I am trying to broaden my horizons, so I downloaded the Mystery Writers of America Top 100 Mystery Novels of all Time. Although I’ve read many of the books on the list, it was a long time ago, and I thought I might start going through them again, one by one. I began with The Maltese Falcon, which I still had at home in paperback. While I liked it a lot, I’ve become accustomed to contemporary fiction, so it took some getting used to. Last night, I started The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler.

Although the other books by my bedside are not on the list, they are older and easy to get from the library. I tried to read the first book in the border trilogy by Don Winslow, and I just couldn’t take it. Maybe another time when the world seems less grim. I read his other books classified as surf noir, and I enjoyed them very much.

Still grim but not too terribly violent were The Ice Harvest by Scott Phillips and Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell. I liked both, especially Winter’s Bone, which features a great protagonist … a 16-year-old girl named Ree, in search of her meth-making father, who has skipped bail and left the family home as bond. The book is sometimes classified as rural noir.

I’ve never read the Jack Reacher series by Lee Child, but one of my golf buddies swears by them. I mean, she swears a lot anyway but really likes these books. I have a hold on it at the library and was waiting until I could leave my bathroom for a few minutes to go and get it. Today is feeling bright!

Also on my hold list is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, which I read many years ago. I want to read it again before I read the new sequel – The Testaments, which I also have on reserve. And I’m 7th in line for The Night Fire, a new Harry Bosch by Michael Connelly.

I’m feeling pretty good today. Tomorrow I have an introductory appointment with the personal trainer at my new fitness center, so I’m excited about that. And Friday – I have a 90-minute massage!! I haven’t had a massage in years and can’t wait.

Keeping the body retirement strong

I went in search of a year-round pool for swimming laps and ended up with a fitness center membership. In the defense industry, we might have called that “Mission Creep.”

Although I didn’t want to go down this path, the gym is close to my house and offers lots of amenities. The cost is $85 per month – I got a discount of $65 a month for six months. No contract, and I can cancel at any time.

I still adore our backyard pool, but it takes me six strokes to traverse. A 25-yard pool at the fitness center will be a luxury. The facility is beautiful with all the standard equipment, as well as yoga, cycling, sauna, steam and a variety of cardio classes.

“Gentle Yoga” sounded like something I might try. The last time I dabbled with yoga was more than 30 years ago, and I got a crick in my neck from looking up at the instructor trying to figure out what to do. I don’t see myself signing up for dancing classes, as I never seem to know which way to turn. Line dancing was a colossal failure for me, even with copious amounts of beer, but still, I might give Zumba a go.

Perhaps I’ll meet some local people at the gym … if I don’t scare them off. It seems I’ve lost the art of conversation. While I’ve always been kind of a loner and am quite content to be by myself or with Dale, I think it’s healthy to make new friends.

Thinking about friends always reminds me of Young Frankenstein, when Gene Hackman is the blind priest praying for a visitor, and he gets Frankenstein. So funny. I can probably recite the entire movie script from memory.

Speaking of Frankenstein, the gym should prove interesting when I change in the locker room. During my tour, everyone was nonchalant in various stages of undress, which is fine with me, as I have no issues with nudity. But I remember the first time I saw a picture of a woman with no breasts, and it’s kind of jolting. I’m so used to it now after my mastectomy four years ago. I forget I look different. I’m certainly not going to change in the stall, and maybe it will be educational for some!

Oh, and I got a hot new swimsuit that will transform me into the athlete I’m not! I have good endurance, but I’m a slow swimmer. At least I’ll look fast. As they used to say at work, fake it ’til you make it.

I do feel a little guilty, as I seem to spend money, while Dale doesn’t. But he said in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that much money. We saved and saved for so long, that we find ourselves in the unusual position of actually spending it. As homebodies, our travel budget is minimal, and we rarely dine in restaurants.

That said, we are doing an overnighter to the beach for oysters this weekend – and nothing there is cheap. Still, it’s not a trip to Italy.

While I understand travel can be intellectually stimulating, I am more likely to spend money on things that keep my body retirement strong and ready for action, as opposed to visiting monuments or buying lots of clothes. I guess it’s about individual priorities and whatever makes you happy.

Anything can happen to anyone, and I know exercising is no guarantee of a long and healthy life. But I’ve seen so many people decline physically because they wouldn’t or couldn’t get out there and move. I read an obituary of a 72-year-old who died of natural causes, and I am reminded of the 83-year-old in my golf group who walks 18 holes weekly. She’s my inspiration, and I’m just going to keep at it until I’m no longer able.

Staying fit and healthy is my retirement gig.

On the food front, I’ve rediscovered dates. How could anything be so delicious? Better than a candy bar! They’re high in sugar, so I only eat one or two, but they are also loaded with nutrients. When the dates are gone, I’m probably going to switch to prunes, as they are just as tasty and good for bone density, always an issue for the estrogen-free among us.

Cannabis as preventive medicine

I’ve been swimming in our backyard pool all summer – 20 to 30 minutes of laps (freestyle). It takes me six strokes to get across the pool. Not ideal, but you can’t beat the convenience.

Soon enough it will be time to find a pool for the colder months. I’ve built up a solid conditioning base, and I’m not going to give it up for winter. That was my original plan, to just swim seasonally. However, I’ve seen a huge improvement in my back pain, as well as my chest muscles, which are messed up from the mastectomy.

There are three options. Two are outdoor pools that claim to be open year-round. I need to go check them out. Even if it’s heated, the idea of getting into a pool when it’s cold outside is hard for me to fathom. Of course, that’s California cold, which isn’t all that bad.

The other pool is part of a gym membership, which I don’t want to pay. I’ll be 64 in a couple of weeks. I’m told Silver Sneakers doesn’t kick in until you’re 65. Depending on what the gym costs, I could do it a year and then switch to Silver Sneakers once I’m on Medicare.

The more I move, the better I feel. I played golf in the mountains yesterday and rode in a cart. Normally, I walk 18 holes two to three times a week. My knees have not bothered me. A few hours of riding in a cart, and my left knee was burning. I put some cannabis cream on it when I got home, and it’s back to normal this morning. Truth be told, I use the cream daily. Some parts just need more attention than others.

Cannabis truly is part of my aging badass lifestyle. When I first retired, I started using it because all of the sudden I could! But I also used it to treat pain and anxiety. I was nervous about retiring … money, moving, everything. But I’ve calmed down and rarely stress over that stuff anymore.

Although I occasionally imbibe for pleasure, I think of cannabis as medicine. I am lucky to be in great health now, but I previously used cannabis to treat the side effects of chemotherapy. Now I mostly use it as a preventive supplement, in maintenance doses, not unlike Glucosamine and other products favored by aging boomers.

For example, I used to put two dropperfuls of tincture into a glass of juice. I’d feel a slight pleasant feeling within an hour. But I didn’t want the cannabis to affect me if I was driving, and my anxiety and pain were quite manageable. I still believe in using cannabis as a whole-body anti-inflammatory, so now I put one dropperful in my juice every morning like a vitamin. I feel nothing, but I believe it contributes to my good health.

A dropperful, by the way, is what you see in the picture. That’s what you get with one full squeeze of the bulb. Dale misunderstood my guidance, and when it only filled up part-way, he poured it into a glass like a drink. Another pour, because I suggested two, and he said all he did was sit and stare into outer space for a couple of hours.

Kids, don’t try this at home. Go slow.

Although I have not used CBD-only products, I understand the lure, especially where cannabis isn’t legal. However, I live in California, where legal cannabis is strictly controlled, and I like that. I’ve read there’s a good bit of fraud in the CBD market, so you often don’t know what you’re getting. Additionally, evidence suggests the whole plant has greater therapeutic value.

Dustin Sulak, a physician and Reiki healer in Maine, has been practicing cannabis medicine since 2009. Dr. Sulak is among those who believe THC is the primary health agent in cannabis.

“The idea that THC is recreational and CBD is medical is far from true,” he said. “THC, milligram for milligram, has a much greater therapeutic effect than CBD. You could treat pain with 3 mg of THC, but it might take 15 to 30 mg of CBD to attain the same relief.” Dr. Sulak recommends the whole plant for overall well-being and to prevent disease.

He’s the one who introduced me to the concept of micro-dosing cannabis … just enough to get the benefits without the high. I’m sold on it, and I hope cannabis continues to keep me healthy through a long and active retirement!

Cancer in my pocket

Sometimes I am surprised by the power of blogging. Sometimes it feels like a thankless compulsion, and sometimes it feels like a life-saving jolt through the heart.

For those who may remember, I wrote a blog from 2008-2012 called Rock the Silver … about gray hair and aging with style. I was never particularly good at the style part, what with my preference for all black until something darker comes along, but it was a fun blog with a core group of loyal readers.

One of those readers was Maru, a stage 4 endometrial cancer survivor. As a stage 3 ovarian cancer survivor, we shared similar medical histories and were both graduates of the Taxol School of Hard Knocks. Maru’s cancer survival tips are essential reading.

Maru found me again when I started this blog. She is healthy and strong and getting closer to retirement. We were exchanging emails, and I said, “We are so lucky to have survived – did you even think you’d get this close to retirement?”

Funny, Maru said, she and a bunch of her cousins all turned 60 around the same time. They bemoaned the milestone, as Baby Boomers often do. Maru, on the other hand, said she couldn’t have been happier to turn 60.

“And every year ongoing has been delicious. As you once put it: cancer in my pocket.”

I was completely blown away – I published that post on February, 18, 2012. The words meant something to someone I have never met, and she remembered it all these years later.

Sadly, I know only too well not everyone is lucky when it comes to cancer. I grieve for those who have passed and those who are suffering. While we survivors and caregivers get to live a bit longer, we owe it to our loved ones to seek joy and carry on with this mystery called life. We live in their honor.

Here’s the old post:

Thursday, I visited the dermatologist for my annual check-up. I go every year for the big naked look-see, because I respect cancer. I figure, well, I got it once when I least suspected it, so I should be vigilant about everything.

I saw this particular doctor for the first time last year, and I remember him being amazed I was an ovarian cancer survivor. I actually had primary peritoneal cancer, which is pretty much the same thing as ovarian. If it’s a drive-by, I say ovarian. If I’m sitting next to you on the airplane, I’ll tell you everything if you ask nicely.

The doctor walked into the room as I sat there naked and draped in a flimsy paper robe, and the first thing he said was:

You’re the ovarian cancer survivor.

Yes, 13 years next month.

Wow. You’re lucky.

I know.

They must have caught it early.

No, it was advanced. Stage 3.

You’re really really lucky.

Believe me, I know.

But sometimes I have to be reminded! He asked me a lot of questions about my surgery and treatment and was surprised they had Taxol “back then.” I said absolutely, I had a chance encounter at a golf course of all places with a researcher who helped develop the drug, and he said I was the poster girl for Taxol. It was approved for use in 1992, so by the time I needed it in 1999, they had worked out the optimum cycle.

Following the surgery to remove as much cancer as possible, I had a cocktail of Benadryl, Taxol and Carboplatin infused every 21 days for six months. I’ve been fine ever since. Benadryl is an anti-allergan, and I am pleased to let you know it was one hell of a rush when shot directly into your vein. The rush didn’t last long, but I looked forward to it just the same.

Anyway, I passed the dermo exam. It was a good visit, and I’d go back again right this minute just to hear him say how lucky I am. Sometimes I imagine that I carry around cancer in my pocket like an emergency dollar bill. And sometimes I just have to reach in my pocket and fish it out to remind me that every minute of every day is a gift.

I wish I had learned all this important stuff in some other way, but I ignored all the little sticks. It was the big stick that got my attention. For those of you who are better with sticks, I think the thing to remember is that whatever we’re doing, wherever we’ve been and wherever we’re going, no matter how bad it gets, we’re lucky. We’re really, really lucky.

The game that never bores

Budget-friendly golf

I couldn’t wait to retire so I could play more golf, and it has been so much fun. Aside from stereotypes about golf and retirement, it’s an excellent activity for retirees, especially if you walk. I live in California and joined a public course with an annual walking pass for $2,000. For that, I can play unlimited golf. It’s a little more if you ride.

The downside is most people know the sport is incredibly frustrating, infinitely challenging and occasionally rewarding … but all that keeps us coming back!

Oh, and the people. I’m never bored.

Hoo-ha exposure

I’ve been putting a little more effort into my golf attire, and one of the more accomplished golfers in my women’s league complimented me on my outfit. I bought a couple of inexpensive skorts at Marshall’s, but I cut out the shorts, which were too short for me. I bought longer yoga-style shorts to wear underneath, and it looks pretty cute. The shorts are long enough so I don’t have to worry about them riding up as I walk the course.

She said it was better than what some of the LPGA players wear, because you can practically see their hoo-ha. Am I spelling that correctly? I assured her she would not see my hoo-ha, and I think we’re good. But by and large, I like seeing women athletes celebrate their bodies with great-fitting clothes. I simply recognize I am not one of them, so extra caution is required.

A little nip?

A couple of weeks ago I played golf with a group of women, one of whom struggled mightily on the first hole. She scored a big number and was very bummed. She said, “You’ve played with me before, you know I can play! What am I doing wrong?”

I NEVER give advice. I said, “Your swing looks perfect. Just relax. Your game will come back.”

And it did! She ended up with a two birdies and a solid score. On almost every hole, I saw her pull out a small flask from her bag and take a tiny slug. I have no idea what was in that flask, but Dale said you usually don’t fill those things with lemonade. I’m guessing she found a way to relax.

Although I’ve enjoyed plenty of relaxation juice over the years, I’ve become more cautious about drinking on the golf course. I’m mostly about staying hydrated, so water is my beverage of choice. A couple of weeks ago, one of our playing partners had her first eagle … a 2 on a Par 4. It was very exciting for everyone. Our friend insisted on buying Bloody Mary’s for us at the turn.

The Bloody was absolutely delicious. I don’t know if it was because we were at elevation or maybe I was a bit dehydrated, but after only drinking half of it, I was kind of sloshed. I had been playing pretty well up to that point but then sleepwalked through three holes, basically wrecking my round. I stopped drinking the Bloody and focused on my water, finishing reasonably sober.

The love birds

More people-watching yesterday. I went out as a single and got paired up with a threesome – a married couple and their friend. The married couple appeared to have a large age difference. It’s hard to tell, but he looked to be about 20 or 30 years older than her.

I’ve played with them before, and I nicknamed them the love birds. Every other word is babe this, babe that. They walk off the green holding hands. I know … how awful … a loving couple having fun together. Imagine! I guess I’m a little more buttoned up when it comes to public displays of affection.

Aside from all my judgmental observations, they are quite nice to play with. Interestingly, they don’t putt anything out. One putt, and if it doesn’t go in, they pick up the ball. I have no idea how they score, and I’m guessing they don’t care, which is kind of cool. I wish I were that laid back. The other thing is he stands behind her on nearly every shot and gives “feedback” on her swing. I’d kill him, but that’s me.

I was busy trying to play my game and didn’t give them much thought until the drive home. I was thinking love has no age limit. I don’t know the backstory, so I started imagining various scenarios.

What if she had been dying in the hospital, and he was her doctor? He saved her and taught her to play golf so they could live happily every after. Or perhaps she was a victim of human trafficking, and he was the private detective who found her and saved her from a life of ruin. I guess I had that whole Pretty Woman thing in my head. She could have been the one who rescued him from an otherwise miserable life. Or maybe they met on the golf course a month ago and haven’t fallen out of love yet.

Then I thought, maybe she just looks young. Maybe they’ve been married forever and have a passel of children and grandchildren. Of course, none of this is any of my business, and in the grand scheme of things, I don’t care. I just like to fill my head with idle speculation about other people’s lives. It’s actually an improvement over the rest of the voices in my head.

Anyway, you can have a lot of fun playing golf in retirement. You don’t have to be good, and you don’t have to be rich. I’ve dabbled in many sports and hobbies over the years, and nothing has seduced me like golf. I always thought it was the game itself until I started writing this and realized it’s the game and the people.

They say golf can be a metaphor for life. Certainly, I’ve encountered some annoying people on and off the golf course, but I’m learning to appreciate the characters out there, and I am all the better for it.

Simple and inexpensive skincare

I describe myself as aging-indifferent. I don’t have an aching desire to look younger and don’t care much about wrinkles, but I do want clear skin. Sure, I’m just a crazy kid with a dream, but I also don’t want to burn up my retirement savings on fancy products that feed the illusion of youth.

While I acknowledge my skin looks better without the benefit of the evil magnifying mirror, I do seem to be experiencing mild acne, which I did not have when I was young. Why now? I don’t know, but I kept saying I needed to visit a dermatologist so I could get a professional recommendation on a simple and inexpensive skincare regime.

Then I concluded most derms have their own fancy products and procedures to sell, along with inbred anti-aging bias, and the chances of me getting out of there with a minimalist game plan were slim to none. I started reading.

My objective was to find reasonably priced products I could purchase at my local drugstore and a simple routine even an aging-indifferent minimalist could love … something more gender-neutral, as opposed to beauty-focused. So, first, I settled on a regime. Then I looked at specific products, and ladies and gentlemen, there ain’t no shortage.

I like Neutrogena, even though they are owned by corporate giant Johnson & Johnson, which has some splaining to do over asbestos in its talcum powder of yesteryear. Alas, I’m not a black and white sort of person and mostly swim in the gray areas of life. Sort of like Mayor Pete, who said he didn’t approve of Chick-fil-A’s politics but kind of approves of its chicken.

Better for me to squint and carry on with money in my pocket than to search for some pure and magical potion made by holistic skin fairies in France. I just need some shit for my face.

Here’s where I landed:

Morning

  1. Cleanse – Neutrogena Ultra Gentle Daily Cleanser
  2. Vitamin C Serum – Neutrogena Hydro Boost Hydrating Serum
  3. Moisturizer with Sunscreen – Neutrogena Healthy Defense Daily Moisturizer (SPF 50)

Evening

  1. Cleanse – Neutrogena Ultra Gentle Daily Cleanser
  2. Retinol Cream – Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Serum
  3. Moisturizer – Cera Ve PM Facial Moisturizing Lotion

Buying a product with the words “wrinkle repair” rather offended my aging-indifferent sensibility, but all my reading suggested retinol would help clear up my skin, so I caved. I started the regime a few weeks ago, and I have been astonished. My face has pretty much cleared up, and despite my best attempts, I look younger. Seriously, my skin looks visibly firmer and brighter.

And, I confess, I like it.

Although I read tons of articles, mostly using search terms dermatologists and skincare, here are the two that resonated with me:

Six Top Dermatologists Reveal Their Skincare Routines

The Simple Skincare Routine Dermatologists Recommend

Are you using retinol? Vitamin C serum? I knew about retinol but missed the day on Vitamin C. According to reports, Vitamin C is an anti-oxidant that protects the skin from the damage of ultraviolet rays and pollution. It also helps the skin absorb collagen, which contributes to your skin’s firmness.

Letting go of grudges

It occurred to me I spend a lot of time cleaning up after our cat, Riley, and he doesn’t even like me.

My husband said I was being too harsh. Of course, Riley likes me. Maybe. But he definitely likes Dale better. Riley jumps up on the table in the morning to say hi to Dale, but unless I have butter nearby, I don’t even get a passing meow.

Dale feeds him, and I suppose that explains why Riley is a daddy’s cat. But I deliver fresh tuna juice to him wherever he may happen to be resting. That ought to count for something. Riley is a long-haired cat, so I groom him at least every other day. I pre-heat his spa table (the clothes dryer). I try to be a good mother.

Sometimes he likes it, especially those long, slow strokes on the chin, but sometimes he doesn’t. My goal is to keep him mat-free. If I should find what we call a protomat and loosen it with my army of cat grooming tools, he’s still gentle and tolerant but not very happy. I wonder if he holds a grudge.

Speaking of grudges, I found this article about letting go of your grudges fascinating. I assumed I don’t hold grudges, but as I started to think about it, more than one came to the surface. I was appalled to find myself in the category of nurturing a grudge … holding onto it like a pet.

The good news is you can train yourself to forgive and move on by reframing the result. And lucky for us, retirement is a good time to de-grudge, because you don’t really want to spend the rest of your quality time stewing over stuff that went down a long time ago, do you?

My grudge involved a mentor who steered my career in an unwelcome direction. As a result, I had one dreadful year, the worst experience of my life including cancer, but when all was said and done, I ended up in California, where I wanted to be all along. And I got to retire! Maybe it’s time to let go.

The article links to a quiz that ranks your grudge on a scale of one to 10. I took it twice for the same grudge, as described above, and it was a four the first time I took it and a three the second time. Maybe even taking the quiz helped me see it wasn’t as awful as I thought. I’ve reframed the experience as a success story, a survival story, and I am now working on personal forgiveness for the grudgee.

I have to say the political atmosphere in the U.S. and around the world makes me sad and angry. I partially blame social media, so that would be another grudge. But I do think the current situation is bigger and deeper than social media, which just escalates the underlying causes.

There’s a meanness I don’t recall seeing in my lifetime. Hostility expressed at the speed of light about every little thing – way beyond holding grudges. My heart breaks every time I hear anti-Semitic, racist, homophobic bullshit. And I’ll just say this. It’s a good time to be post-uterus.

I’ve had this John Prine song on my brain. The Lonesome Friends of Science:

The lonesome friends of science say

“The world will end most any day”

Well, if it does, then that’s okay

‘Cause I don’t live here anyway

I live down deep inside my head

Well, long ago I made my bed

I get my mail in Tennessee

My wife, my dog, my kids, and me

John Prine

On the bright side, I went for a walk and June is bustin out all over. All this darkness, yet there they are, luscious flowers, springing with life. The Maui hiker survived! Navy pilots are reporting unexplained flying objects. Let’s hope they are aliens and way nicer than us.

When the candy is handy

It has been a cold and rainy winter, and I fear some of us have gained a bit of weight. I’ve put on two or three pounds, but I try not to worry, because it’s not much, and I know my activity level is increasing. I eat less when I’m out and about. Pretty soon, I’ll be back to normal.

I lost about 50 pounds when I was in my 20s and another 10 just a few years ago. With lifelong weight maintenance, I have found it’s important not to panic and over-correct. Just keep exercising and get back to eating well, focusing on portion control and healthy choices. Trust your body to know what it needs.

The truth is, I’ve been uncharacteristically undisciplined. Before I made a serious change and eliminated junk sweets from my diet, Easter was my favorite candy season … tricksy, as this is also the time when one might be trying to recover from winter weight gain.

Easter, our cruel mistress, brings all that chocolate, but I show up for the sugar. The joy of jelly beans, marshmallow peeps, marshmallow bunnies and chicks (like Circus Peanuts) and why, yes, those hard marshmallow Easter hunt eggs.

I never met a marshmallow I didn’t like, but I have avoided them for several years. However, I was feeling sorry for myself. I try so hard to be careful and do everything right, but the rewards are elusive. I’m thin and fit, yet I have to worry about blood sugar and blood pressure. Age and genetics and definitely not fair. All good reason to indulge in self-sabotage, right?

The incident involving my face on the pavement pissed me off, so I bought two bags of the Easter hunt eggs. Just so you know – Walgreens didn’t have them, but CVS did. In case you want to follow me down that slippery slope. I allocated four each night in a little bedside bowl so the candy was handy. The white ones are my favorite.

That first marvelous crackly sugary bite. It’s like heaven. But heaven with a taste of hell, because there’s just no excuse for eating these things. And once you start, it’s hard to stop until you’ve overdone it, and your throat is oddly parched with a sugar hangover, and there’s not enough water on the planet to quench your thirst.

If I’m paying attention, I don’t feel right when I eat poorly, and it seems there’s new thinking that supports my theory.

There are four eggs left, and I am throwing them away. No more handy candy. I’ve had my little party.

We don’t bounce like we used to

Although I mentioned I fell down and went boom, I was too angry at the time to explain it in any way that might help someone else. I’ve had a few days to calm down.

It was Monday. I parked my car and was walking toward the entrance to a thrift shop, where I planned to search for cheap things I might turn into art or something like it. Items were displayed on the porch. I got excited, and with my eyes on the prize, I tripped on a parking lot car stopper and went face down.

People were nice. Stuff flew out of my purse, and someone gathered it up. Someone else brought me a chair. A woman with a young child had a wad of tissues for my bleeding chin. I felt OK, but I sat there keeping pressure on the chin. I asked someone for a mirror, and when I saw the gash, I immediately knew I’d need medical treatment.

I drove to a walk-in clinic near my house. I did not know there’s a difference between a walk-in clinic and an urgent care clinic. The physician’s assistant at the walk-in clinic took a quick look and said I needed to go to urgent care.

Next stop was urgent care, where I commenced to wait. I was there over an hour, when the receptionist announced there was some sort of air quality problem, perhaps carbon monoxide. They were closing the clinic and evacuating the building. She said I’d need to go to their other clinic, a good 30 minutes away.

I thought, well, I don’t need to stay within their system, as long as the clinic accepts my insurance. I used Google Maps to find another urgent care clinic down the street. Oh, and Dale had let his phone die, as he often does, so there was no way to reach him and let him know I’d be late. I finally texted a neighbor and asked her to let Dale know where his wife was.

By this time, I started bleeding again. I thought that might bump me up in line, but it did not. A woman with five children offered to let me go in front of her, and I said, seriously, you must be the kindest person ever, but I’ll just wait my turn and mop up the blood as best I can.

The gash only needed two stitches. It didn’t hurt much at all, and I thought I was golden. Until the next day, I woke up with bruises all over and sore ribs. The ribs actually got worse the next day, but they are getting better. Still, I’m taking it easy. I’m pissed to have endured all that rain and no golf, only to mess myself up as soon as it got nice outside.

Anyway, the clinic said to come back in 10 days to have the stitches removed. The aftercare sheet they gave me said five days if the laceration is on the face. I called my regular doctor, and they said yes, five days. I had an appointment Friday to have them removed, but I messed up the time and missed my appointment. They would not work me in. I now have an appointment to have the stitches removed Monday, which will be seven days. I don’t care anymore. What’s one more scar?

At every juncture on this little journey, I would explain I tripped over a parking lot car stopper. And almost every single person had a story about a pedestrian accident involving parking lot care stoppers. I had never given them much thought, but you can bet I will now.

I have no good explanation for my lapse of attention. But missing my appointment is another indication I’m letting too much distract me. This post about juggling balls from Linda at Thoughts From a Bag Lady in Waiting certainly resonated with me. From now on, I’m starting every day with a look at the calendar and a very short list of priorities.

Here’s the weirdest part, and I would love to hear from anyone who has a theory. March 11 was the anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. That was 1999. On March 11, 2012, I fell off my bicycle and broke my wrist. And now on March 11, 2019, I busted myself up in a parking lot.

Please be careful out there. We don’t bounce like we used to.

Vacuuming your way to pickleball

My retirement credo is move if you’re able, as much as you’re able. I walk, I play golf, I walk when I play golf, I clean the house … Dale has not exactly followed my lead, but he knew there was room for improvement. Enter pickleball.

In case you don’t know, pickleball is the official sport of the senior set. Pickleball is the new shuffleboard only more vigorous. The game is played on a court and is a combination of tennis, badminton and ping-pong. The court is a bit smaller and the net is a bit lower. You hit the ball with a wooden paddle, and the plastic ball is nearly dead.

Back in the day, Dale and I played tennis and racquetball. Both sports were abandoned years ago due to injuries. Dale’s shoulder, my knees. But these days we’re doing pretty well injury-wise and hoped pickleball might be a modern solution to our need to kick each other’s butts on the court. Let’s just say we were are competitive.

I signed us up for lessons at the local community center. Dale questioned the need for lessons – how hard can it be? My thinking was not about the game’s difficulty but meeting other people who know how to play, understanding the etiquette, learning how to schedule time on the court, etc. Clearly, considerations too detailed for Dale’s big-picture brain.

We had our first two classes this week. Two more next week and we graduate. The class was filled with men and women who looked pretty much like us. Older, varying degrees of fitness.

The men were mostly out of shape, but a couple of the women looked athletic and one tightly packed blonde had an aggressive swing seemingly aimed at my face. I’m going back for her.

For a guy who didn’t even see the need for lessons, it turns out Dale read up on the game and the rules beforehand. The teacher was explaining how to tally the score, and I whispered to Dale I was confused, and he whispered back not to worry, because he already read it all online.

You did pre-work? Seriously? Whew, the stakes are high.

Pickleball is fun! We’re terrible now but figure we’ll improve soon enough. Nothing hurt when I played, and more importantly, nothing hurt after I played. Dale said he discovered new muscles. He runs but doesn’t exercise his upper body all that much. I guess golf saves me in that department. Or is it golf?

In a moment of brilliance, I suggested to Dale he vacuum more for a better upper-body workout. Nothing like a vigorous vacuum to prepare for a day of sport! Mopping is another excellent choice. In a pinch, yard work will suffice. He found that all very amusing.

If you haven’t tried pickleball, I recommend giving it a go. So far, it seems gentler on the body yet still challenging enough to call it a workout. Moving more in new and different directions can’t be a bad thing. All in all, we like it and are hoping pickleball will be a game we can enjoy together for many years to come.