Sometimes it feels like my range of thoughts and emotions is increasingly smaller, less invigorating, numbing.
It’s not as though my life was filled with a cornucopia of exciting activities before the lockdown began, but that was by design. I don’t want an action-packed life. Still, the simple things I used to do with my time and micro-interactions with people kept me interested and interesting. I had lots of things to write about.
My brain can only hold so much, and my “interested and interesting” brain cells went on idle to make room for COVID-19, a bad tenant trashing the cheap real estate in my head. I want to evict him and make room for happy and creative thoughts.
Sadly, COVID-19, in some form or fashion, is most likely here for the long haul … which means I can’t completely evict him from my brain. My goal is to lock him in the basement and only let him out when I need critical information.
Perhaps we can all free up happy space in our brains as we get closer to a new normal that in some way approximates how we used to live. I feel like we’re on the cusp of getting some of it back.
Social animals may not find the new normal acceptable, but I can see how it might work for us. Dale and I don’t do large gatherings anyway. Our “normal” includes trips to the grocery store, golf, wine tasting. The occasional road trip.
Seriously, I could wear a mask and be socially distant forever if I have to. Masks are cool. Have you noticed the anti-aging effects? It’s like wrinkles be gone. You’ll look 10 years younger!
I gave myself a pedicure today, and it looks pretty good for an amateur. I don’t keep my toenails painted anyway, so I was just going for neat and clean. Beauty base zero.
It wasn’t so bad. I have a little teak stool I put in the bathtub. Then I ran some hot water and added a handful of bath salts. Soaked, pushed back the cuticles, cut and filed the nails, used a pumice stone to remove dead skin on my feet and then shined up the nails with a buffer block.
My tools are starting to deteriorate, so I ordered new buffer blocks and fake pumice stones from Amazon. My stuff should come next week, but I checked the box that said, “No hurry.” Just doing my part for humanity.
When I let my hair grow long, it was for simplicity and convenience. I didn’t want to spend my precious time in a salon. With the current COVID-19 restrictions, staying home has not been a problem for me hair-wise, since I only get it trimmed a couple of times a year. Blunt cut with no unruly layers growing wild. No gray roots to worry about when it’s all gray!
Although I used to call it retirement hair, perhaps I should call it pandemic hair. I guess I could cut it myself if it comes to that.
Dale gets his hair cut at the military barber shop just outside the commissary, where he normally goes twice a month for “the big stuff.” He’s bald on top and gets the Number 3 for the rest of his head. His hair has been driving him nuts, and we talked about whether I could successfully cut it.
Today he said, “Let’s do this thing.”
I watched a few YouTube videos. Then I got the trimmers and
practiced without turning them on. I’m like, I think I got this. We went out to
the backyard, and I put a towel over his shoulders. I started with the fuzz
around his neck, which was easy.
Then I set the trimmers to 7, figuring there would be less
damage if I messed this up. Nothing horrible happened, so I gradually worked my
way down to 3. Then I just kind of went over the whole thing, zapping stray
hairs I missed and trimming around the ears. At some point, I decided I was
done.
He went into the bathroom to check himself out in the
mirror, and he said, “It looks great!” Another mission accomplished.
The whole thing reminded me of when we first got Riley, a long-haired kitty. He had nasty matts, and I got Dale’s beard trimmer to see if I could get them out. I didn’t put them back right away, and one day Dale asked if I had seen his beard trimmer.
I didn’t even think … I just said, “Oh, you mean the cat’s?”
He was horrified, but we both laughed. It still makes us laugh, which is a good thing.
I did not need a blogging break after all. What I needed was a break from the shit show out there that passes for news, and I somehow got confused. Shit show? Blog? You can see how it might happen.
This could be the corona virus talking, but I don’t think we can completely divorce ourselves from all the negativity of the world. While bad news followed by more bad news gets old fast, most of us want to stay connected. Connected but not immersed? It may be a shit show out there, but that doesn’t mean we should binge-watch the entire season.
It turns out I require a different system for processing information. Not everything needs to be hoarded like hand sanitizer and toilet paper.
If my brain were an office, and you walked in, it would look like a bomb exploded. Mountains of crumpled newspapers, gigabytes of unfiltered information floating about like space junk, blueberry scone crumbs and yellow crime scene tape. It’s ugly in there.
My plan is to tidy up my brain and take out the trash. Not everything will get tossed. I mean, some things aren’t pleasant, but you probably need to know about it to stay somewhat relevant. I’m thinking a new folder with a label that says, “Does Not Spark Joy.” Because there is so much in life that does spark joy, and it’s a shame to let the rest of it cheat you out of happiness.
Seize the day.
As it happens, Dale and I are uniquely suited for battling the corona virus. We’re retired homebodies with no travel plans, few friends and an aversion to public places and most restaurants. We are experienced at social distancing and freak if the doorbell rings.
While it’s true many psychopaths are loners, many loners are not psychopaths. We’re kind and charming people. It’s just that most of the time, we don’t really want to talk to you. However, if you are bringing beer, we might reconsider.
Thanks to Dale, we also have an aggressive toilet paper
supply system. He has always been Johnny Mission when it comes to maintaining
inventory. And for reasons undisclosed, I use toilet paper like party streamers.
All in all, I didn’t actually take a real break. Seriously, a break from what? I eat, sleep, golf, walk, swim laps, cook, read, write, grow cannabis and periodically stop to purge my brain of the stuff that does not spark joy.
Illegitimi non carborundum!
Loosely translated as, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
Many retirees live to travel, but we are not among them. Why
not?
Aside from being happy homebodies, we traveled a lot when we were young, and travel isn’t what it used to be. We’re on vacation every day and don’t need a break. We live well and cook great food at home.
Plus, we’re bad at travel. Dale won’t plan, and I over-plan, researching hotels and restaurants in search of the perfect experience. We’re almost always disappointed and sad to see the money go.
We did some soul-searching and figured out a few things. For
some of us, traveling was easier before retirement, because we knew more money
was coming in. Right? Time to earn it back. When there’s a fixed pot at the end
of the rainbow, you tend to be more cautious. At least we are.
There’s no one-size-fits-all for retirement travel. Easy for some, not so much for others. Still, most of us do want to enjoy new experiences. Maybe it’s just a matter of figuring out what we like and don’t like and learning to do it better.
One thing we learned this week is that we’re sort of low-brow people in search of a low-rent rendezvous. We went to Napa for an overnight trip, and it was an expensive letdown. The wineries were lovely, but later it seemed like we had opened our wallets to charming thieves and said, “Here, take it.”
A big deal up Napa way is bringing your own wine to a
restaurant. Best as I can tell, there are rules. You don’t bring a wine they
serve at the restaurant. It should be something special. They charge a “cork”
fee unless it’s a special day where they don’t charge to uncork your wine, but
even then, there’s an etiquette to tipping and tasting. Of course, they stick
it to you on the wine if you order theirs.
We had beer! And that was the best part of our meal.
Food … we’re all about food and thought planning a trip around the restaurant would be ideal. I spent hours researching options. And then we ended up with mediocre food that cost too much.
However, there were locals at the bar, and what did my little eye spy but a wine purse! For the bring-your-own uncorking ritual. That’s when I knew this was not our tribe. When I think of purses and wine, I might recall the 70s, when one might have wanted something to throw up in.
I came home in a foul mood and tried to think of our best
vacations. What have we forgotten?
Our favorite trips were to unpretentious places where we spent the day absorbing gorgeous natural scenery – walking, hiking, scuba diving. Moderately strenuous but not grueling. We quit backpacking years ago because it’s hard, and the food sucks. And beer is heavy.
We camped or stayed in a modest lodge. You didn’t have to dress up. We ate whatever was there because we were hungry. And it was good! Oh, and one might have a couple of beers or a glass of wine with dinner and then read for a while before going to bed early.
I’m confident there are better and less expensive ways to explore the wine country. We’ll go back at some point. For now, we are going to focus on visiting natural wonders, and there’s no shortage of them within a few hours of our home. Dale’s on board and said he’s eager to visit Death Valley.
In the summer.
Because then you know what it feels like to be in Death
Valley in the summer.
I spoke with a former colleague this week, and he had nothing
good to say about work. I tried to listen and be supportive, but the whole time
I was thinking how happy I am to be done with all that.
The thing is, when I was into it, I was into it. I was paid
well and am still reaping the benefits of long-term compensation. For the most
part, I enjoyed the work and loved being a leader. I could have stayed a couple
more years, but I had already had cancer twice, I was getting older and wanted a
healthier lifestyle that wasn’t all about work.
I started visualizing the future, and then a couple of bad bosses
and ridiculous expectations set me on the path to retirement, which might be
the best thing that ever happened to me. I love being retired!
These days I do have a job – live well, stay healthy and be
happy. You could say it’s my dream job.
The job is evolving. When I first retired, I experimented
with arts and crafts. I might dabble from time to time, but it just didn’t stick.
I’m surprised to discover I don’t care much about fashion or style. I did when
I was working, but that was all part of the game. Now I dress for comfort and convenience.
When I dress, I think, could I wear this later if I go for a
walk or hit balls on the driving range or would I have to change clothes? Mostly
I wear stretchy things that go anywhere. And running shoes. Even though I don’t
run. Supportive. Good for my back, my knees. Ready for action.
I sometimes thought of myself as a role-model for aging well,
but that seems arrogant. I would like to go back and delete some of the content
I’ve written I now see as preachy. I’m focused on just loving my life, doing
the best I can with what I have and throwing it all out there for others to
read about.
As my thinking evolves, I expect the blog to evolve as well.
I haven’t decided exactly what I’ll do just yet, but I see changes coming. I’m
probably going to ditch the word badass in my tagline. I feel great, but I don’t
feel badass.
My topics are likely to focus on the core things that excite
me. I’ve occasionally ranted about politics, but I’m not continuing down that
path. Ditto for advice on retirement planning. And while golf is a big part of
my life, I don’t write about it much because I don’t think it’s of interest to
many people. I also walk and swim, but so what? Not much to say about that.
The things I love that readers also seem to care about are food,
cooking, cannabis, crime fiction and funny stories about relationships.
I’ll give some thought to reorganizing the blog around these
focus areas. I’m inclined to leave all the old content there, even though I don’t
like some of it anymore, because it does reflect my journey. Gotta figure out a
way to share stories about cooking and food without pretending to be a food
blogger. Finally, I like to keep my word count under 700 and will be more diligent
to keep it tight.
Anyway, that’s where I am on this Super Bowel Sunday. Dale and I don’t care for football, but we’re thinking about food anyway … keeping with the party theme. We have leftover roasted chicken, and I’m voting for Dale’s killer chicken tortilla soup. I’ll make an appetizer of baked cheddar olives wrapped in a flaky pastry dough.
Oh, and beer! We’re currently featuring Panic IPA in
the kegerator. That’s my artwork on the door. My talent knows no limits.
I grew up in an emotionally abusive, low-income family and
never thought of myself as privileged. In fact, I joined the Army at age 18 to
get away from that mess and jumpstart my life. It worked.
These days, my husband and I are not particularly frugal,
but we aren’t particularly extravagant, either. It’s a sweet life, and we are
indeed privileged. I enjoy writing about retirement and aging and the simple
things that make us happy … nothing life-changing but sometimes funny and
hopefully entertaining.
Privilege is relative, and I now understand even my rough
start was like a rocket launcher compared to what some people are born into and
how they live. I had parents, a home, clean clothes, safe places to play, food,
good schools. Intellectually, I understand what it means to not have those
things, but I have no real concept of what life is like outside the bubble.
I’m inspired to expand my thinking after reading an exceptional book about racial conflict in Los Angeles … Your House Will Pay by Steph Cha. The novel starts when a black teenager is killed by a Korean shop owner, and it cascades into the stories of their families – how they are impacted and how they intersect. My words won’t do it justice, so I’ll borrow from the jacket, with these words by Viet Thanh Nguyen:
“This suspense-filled page turner about murder, repentance,
and forgiveness draws from the fraught history of Los Angeles, where America’s
immigrant dream bleeds into America’s racist nightmare.”
In the book, everyone is angry and social media is a feeding frenzy, but the families actually living through the tragedy are ordinary people doing the best they can. We see lots of devastating stories in the news, but this book reminded me you have to look beyond hashtags and viral tweets to find the humanity that brings us together and propels us forward.
Such a powerful read that left me wondering if it’s silly or insensitive to tell stories about my cushy retired life when other people are suffering. But the truth is I’m in no position to write about what it’s like to grow up black and poor or a victim of violent crime any more than I’m going to write about what it’s like to grow up rich. Those are not my experiences.
What can a retirement blogger possibly add to the conversation when there are such eloquent voices to be heard?
Then I thought about how grateful I am for this little
online community – readers and writers alike. I don’t think we have to change
the world one blog post at a time or one comment at a time, but I believe
there’s value in listening and sharing so in some small way, we understand each
other better or something positive happens, even if it’s just a new recipe, a
travel tip or a funny tale about life in the slow lane.
Everyone is shaped by their unique experiences, and everyone
has a story to tell. For whatever it’s worth, this is mine.
This post is about golf, but it isn’t really about golf, so please keep reading.
I play golf because I love it and am addicted and have been for years. I spend a lot of quality retirement time playing golf. Sometimes I play well, and sometimes, well, I don’t. My game has always been sporadic, but I thought I’d nail this once I retired. Another bubble burst.
My sometimes-mediocre game was starting to bother me, because I don’t do it just to get outside and enjoy nature or whatever it is people say. I like being outdoors and want to have fun, but golf is more fun for me when I play reasonably well.
Although I practice some, I don’t practice enough, and I don’t have a strategy for what to practice. Last week the club champion was in my foursome for weekly league play, and I watched her like a hawk. I think she’s in her 60s. Not a particularly long hitter, but she was deadly accurate and had a lot of skill around the green. If she wasn’t on the green, she chipped it close and then made the putt.
I understand she played as a child, and that makes a
difference, but I still think I can follow her example. It doesn’t take
strength or flexibility to chip and putt. But it does take dedication and focus
to have a great short game. As we say in the Pekar family, it’s time to shit or
get off the pot.
I’m probably going to have to drop a little money on lessons.
And while I’m not one of those super-organized goal setters, I do need a plan.
I no longer want to leave my game to chance, as in who shows up that day? The
one who can play or the one who sucks?
The greatest challenge I face is not time, money, strength,
flexibility or commitment. My greatest challenge is what’s between my ears. I’ve
always been sort of a nervous Nellie about golf, and I’ve convinced myself I
don’t like competition. While I play in casual events and just yesterday won a
couple of little prizes at a member-guest day, I have so far avoided the
serious amateur tournaments. I’ve assumed I don’t have the fortitude to play
with the big girls.
While I am in awe of the club champion’s game, she doesn’t
hit the ball any farther than I do. That was kind of an eye-opener for me. I
didn’t see anything that looked impossible. I might not achieve her level of success,
but with training and practice, I believe I can improve significantly.
And all that makes me wonder about my long-held thoughts about competition. It’s not really about liking it or not liking it – it’s about fear. Fear of failing. What I fear, I avoid. I had this same problem at work early in my career. I didn’t want to play “the game” and was willing to let less talented people surpass me because I didn’t have the confidence to compete and possibly lose.
Eventually, I stepped up and forced myself to play the game and play to win. And I did it without sacrificing my core self – it just took time to find that space where I could be me and yet thrive in a tough corporate setting.
I did it before, and now I’m going to do it again. I’m done saying I don’t like competition. I fear competition, but I’m working on it. Same deal as before, except this time I’m retired, and this time it’s golf. Game on!
Are you still fighting fear in retirement? What do you want, and what’s holding you back?
Some of you may have seen a post I wrote yesterday about sun protective clothing. The links got messed up and were giving me fits, so I ended up deleting the entire post. Of course, I should have saved it to reprint later, but that would have been too smart.
I’ll try and recreate the article, but I’m just not into it right now. I’m rather annoyed with myself and feeling kind of down about the state of the world. So many terrible, violent and racist things going on, and on top of it, sun protective clothing reminds me of global warming and all the people who refuse to believe it.
And in the face of all this, I wonder if anything I’m writing about is worthwhile. Maybe I write because it was a childhood passion, but the world has changed since then, and maybe my voice isn’t relevant. To my blogging friends, do you ever wonder about that? What keeps you going?
As far as the U.S. goes, Dale believes it will get better, but I have my doubts. I just can’t imagine our future if Trump is re-elected. I’m not going to move to another country, but I may have to hunker down, ignore the real world and enjoy my little bubble of a life. I might do that anyway.
Anyway, sorry to be so negative. I’m sure I will snap out of it, but that’s my explanation for the missing post.
According to the New York Times, older women are furious about past injustices. I tried to summon repressed anger in the spirit of solidarity, but it’s just not there. Certainly, I have a few bad memories recorded in the great big picture book of moral crimes and misdemeanors, but I choose to let it go. I find myself too happy to be enraged.
I do understand and support the #MeToo movement. I feel empathy for those who hurt. Still, I like to think we can feel and express our anger in real time and then challenge, litigate or move on. Not to excuse bad behavior, but life will throw you curve balls, some of them quite horrific. One woman in the article said she was still furious, still dealing with residual rage, after being asked how fast she could type.
Everyone owns their own experiences, but in my view, a sexist expectation about typing hardly ranks in the Tower of Troubles. Even if it was particularly horrible for that person for some reason, dwelling on it 40 years later doesn’t seem healthy to me.
Even as a child, the idea that nothing bad would ever happen to me seemed ridiculous. My family life was dysfunctional and emotionally abusive. It was a slow start, but I climbed my way out, and the trajectory only goes up from there. I experienced sexual harassment and other injustices along the way, although I’ve never been assaulted. My trajectory flatlined twice with illness and then with a sociopath who tried to destroy my career.
Working with the sociopath was the worst year of my life, and I’ve had cancer twice. Oh, and by the way, the sociopath was a woman. But as I think about her now, I just feel sad it had to go down that way. I was treated badly. Lots of people stood on the sidelines and watched with a knowing eye. I felt like someone should have saved me, and no one did. So, I saved myself. I cut my losses and got the fuck out of there.
All that said, I just can’t get too fired up about it anymore. It happened. It’s over. I have a good life. I’m exceedingly grateful. Maybe the anger women are expressing now is a variation of the same helplessness I felt when no one saved me from the sociopath. Are they looking for a savior? Social media to the rescue? They can hashtag all day long, and they might get clicks and likes, but I’m pretty sure no one will come.
I do not condone the behaviors documented by the #MeToo movement, and it doesn’t matter if you are 25 or 75 years old. I totally support addressing the issues by any means necessary. I’m glad older women are speaking up. And maybe that will help alleviate the repressed anger.
My point is that it’s equally important to take care of yourself from within. With professional help or without it, talk about it all you want, but fight to keep these experiences from cracking your core. Maybe this sounds naive, but I’ve reframed my entire life’s experiences as ingredients in the recipe that created the marvelous person I’ve become.
In the words of the Pet Shop Boys, happiness is an option.
In the continuing adventures of a retiree dabbling for the first time in visual arts, I present Gladys, the sun goddess.
We found Gladys in the backyard while having our fence repaired. She was stuck behind a tree, and the fence guys pulled her out and set her aside. I immediately thought, “Trash to treasure!”
Steps:
Wash
Air dry
Sand (I used a Dremel tool)
Wipe clean
Spray with anti-rust metal primer
Apply Gesso (Liquitex) acrylic primer
Paint with acrylics
Cure for 72 hours
Seal with Liquitex varnish
Now, I guess it’s just a matter of finding a place for her in the backyard. She’s not perfect, but I like her. The biggest lesson learned was about primer. Metal primer alone is not a good foundation for acrylic paint. You still need acrylic primer to get a glossy coating.
Also, my hand is not all that steady for detail work, and I have no freehand skills to speak of. But that’s OK. I’m having fun and taking advantage of retirement as an opportunity to explore a whole new side of myself.
If you’re thinking about dabbling, I am reminded of these words by a colleague who was also a talented artist. I asked him how he knew he had artistic talent. He said, “There’s no such thing as artistic talent. You either do art or you don’t.”
