Hanging in the heat

When we were living in the San Francisco Bay Area and told people we were retiring to the Sierra foothills near Sacramento, the first thing everyone said is, “You know it’s hot there in the summer, right?” I always said, well, we’ve lived in some hot places:

  • Cairo, Egypt
  • Huntsville, Alabama
  • Columbia, South Carolina
  • Fort Worth, Texas

I think we can hang in the heat.

Dale and I are now experiencing our first summer in the foothills, and everyone was right.

It’s hot.

We are hanging, but I have had to make a few changes, probably because I was a good bit younger when I bragged about being able to hang in the heat.

If I’m not finished with my walk before 11 a.m., I probably won’t be walking. We love our swimming pool and take a dip after dinner most nights. It’s so nice to get in bed after your body has been chilled down in the pool. I normally walk when I play golf, but I’ve started using a cart. Compromises must be made.

Golf does not have the intensity of a sport like long-distance running, but you’re out there four or five hours, and the heat takes its toll. I played this week when it was 104, and my partner had to quit at the turn because she felt so weak. I hung in there, drinking shitloads of water, but it’s like you can’t really get enough. My weight can drop three to five pounds from a single round of golf in the heat. It takes me two days to replace those fluids.

I finally realized I’m probably not drinking enough, and I’m not replacing electrolytes. I went to REI and bought these little low-sugar fizzy tablets by Nuun. You drop one in 16 ounces of water, it fizzes away and makes a light, refreshing drink packed with the stuff your body needs. I love the taste, and I feel 100 percent better since I started drinking it. I just ordered more from Amazon.

Dehydration is a common problem among older adults, and it just gets worse if you are active and sweat a lot. I’ve been drinking the electrolyte beverage as part of my hot weather exercise routine, but I’m wondering if I should keep it up all year as a preventive measure. I can’t see that 16 ounces a day (plus plenty of plain water) would hurt.

What I have found surprising about the heat is how my thoughts have turned to seasonal changes. When I was working, I pretty much thought about work all the time. Weather was just a distraction. In retirement, I spend a lot of time outdoors, and the weather is part of my daily life.

I like the dry, California heat and will be sad when the season is over. I like shorts, sandals, skimpy tops. Long days and no rain. The pool! White nectarines. Crisp cucumbers from the garden. Cold gazpacho. Oh, and farmer’s market strawberries, I’ll miss you most of all.

But then I think about autumn – and how great it will feel when things start to cool off. Hot soup, hearty casseroles, staying in bed on a rainy morning, hanging out all day in my jammies or walking a round of golf on a crisp afternoon. It’s not about wishing away summer but learning to enjoy the moment and appreciate seasonal changes.

I’ve always sort of steamrolled through life, and it took retirement to help me slow down and savor  experiences. I haven’t even been retired a full year, but I could not go back to a pressure-cooker job. I’d rather learn to hang in the heat. How about you?

Maintaining retirement hair

In a recent post, I wrote about breaking my glasses and thinking it might be a good opportunity to change my hair, but alas, I changed my mind instead and opted for a quick trim. This is what I call retirement hair.

Some people don’t like gray hair and really don’t like long gray hair. One of my otherwise favorite family members said older women like us shouldn’t have long hair period. Nothing to do there but call bullshit.

I’m not against dying your hair if that makes you happy, but it’s more money and more time in the salon. I’m just not up for it. I had short hair for years, and if you check out my Pinterest boards, you’ll see I do love a good pixie. But again, that’s more time and money in the salon.

I wouldn’t mind growing my hair even longer, but my hair is fine, and it doesn’t hold up well beyond this length. I get a haircut about every three months. This is basically a blunt cut with a couple of subtle layers in the front. Simple.

The stylist blow dried it today, so it’s all smooth, but I have a little wave and let my hair dry naturally mostly to save on wear and tear. No flat irons or curling irons, either. With mid-length hair, I can pull it up in my messy man bun or wear a hat, and it still looks stylish. I shampoo and condition a couple of times a week. No products (another money saver).

Now that I’m keeping my low-maintenance retirement hair, I will turn my focus to glasses. I previously speculated I might go crazy and get something totally funky. Well, it was a thought, wasn’t it? I’ve tried on some frames, but I’m pretty sure I’ve settled into the kind of person who wears plain black glasses.

Sadly, I am an eyewear snob, in the past preferring high-end designer frames, so we’ll see how I handle this challenge on a retirement budget. My sunglasses are Ray-Ban Wayfarer, which I see as having a minimalist retro vibe without being too snotty. Maybe something like that?

On being spiritually fluid

It’s Sunday, and for some reason, I thought about church, even though I haven’t been inside a house of worship for many years. As I’ve tried to boost my creative output in retirement, the memories stir, and I’m whisked away to childhood, when Mom and Dad did their best to keep the nuns happy.

My parents were check-the-box Catholics. Neither was particularly religious, although they were both raised Catholic and were married in the Catholic church. Part of the deal is agreeing to raise your kids Catholic, so that’s what they did. The highlight for my mother was dressing us up in little outfits with matching hats and purses. I liked when we went for donuts after.

As my mother understood it, she was responsible for getting us through confirmation, which is when you come of age in the eyes of the church. I seem to remember this happening around age 13 or 14, but I’m not sure. Once she checked that box, she was done.

I quit going to church and never went back. Despite years of Saturday catechism and Sunday mass, religion never stuck with me. I confess to attending church a couple of times in high school with a friend who was into it. I don’t know what her deal was, but I was just trying to keep a friend happy so we could all go to the beach later.

When I joined the Army at age 18, they asked for religion and I said none. They put that down as no preference, which I think is quite different than my intent. I just wanted to be a good, moral person without a stamp of approval from organized religion, but the pressure was on. A boyfriend broke up with me by way of a note that said, “I’m looking for a woman who is intellectually and spiritually strong. Although you are intellectually strong, your spiritual attributes are nil.” I thought that was a little harsh, but at the time it was probably true.

I respect faith in its many iterations. For a while, I thought I might be Jewish. My parents were both of Eastern European descent, and Pekar is a name that can be associated with Judaism. As a teenager, a lot of my friends were Jewish, and I read Chaim Potok, so I thought maybe that was my tribe. When I was found to have the BRCA 1 mutation, I thought, this is it. I’m Jewish! However, genetic testing revealed no such affiliation. Back to being a no preference, lapsed, check-the-box, ex-Catholic.

Have you found aging to have an impact on your religious practices and spiritual beliefs? For the faithful, I imagine finding that sense of community has a positive impact on your life, especially as you get older. My mother got more Catholic as she aged. Not in a doctrinaire or go to church and touch people kind of way, but she knew her saints and called upon them frequently. I’ve heard it said some people become more religious as they get closer to death. Hedging your bets, so to speak.

Although I didn’t become more Catholic like my mom, I have grown more spiritual. When I was being treated for ovarian cancer 18 years ago, I swear I met my guardian angel. Is that a Catholic thing? I don’t subscribe to a particular deity, although I do believe there’s a spiritual universe beyond what we can see and touch. The details are sketchy.

When it comes to religion, we all land where we land, but it’s interesting to think about where we started and where we ended up. As I’ve aged, I continue to keep an open mind and now think of myself as being spiritually fluid – camping out among indefinite lines along a spectrum of believing and not believing or something in between.

Learning to live with the stock market

October 19, 1987. I was 32, and Dale was 38. It was a Monday, Black Monday to be specific. We were on a scuba diving vacation in Mexico, hanging out in a bar sucking down cold long-necks, when we saw the stock market crashed. We had next to nothing in assets at the time, we didn’t even own a home, certainly nothing invested in the stock market. We ordered another round and toasted our good fortune.

That time is gone. We worked hard and made enough money to invest for retirement. These days a good deal of our assets are hard-wired into what happens on Wall Street. I don’t have a pension, but Dale does, so I like to think we balance each other out. All he has to do is keep breathing, and all I have to do is stay calm.

It’s all manageable, and I understand you can’t make short-term decisions in a game that depends on long-term results. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. In fact, I hate the stock market. I’m lucky I had a 401K and incredibly grateful to have cobbled together a decent retirement, but I’m a worst-case scenario kind of gal. Why sleep when I can brood over the possibilities of financial disaster?

I know not to check it every day, but I do log in about once a week … that’s probably too much. But I read about the trade wars and the possibility of a recession, so I like to go online and see if there are any signs our nest egg is headed down the shame spiral. It’s all allocated in low-risk investments, but still. I was a journalism major, and money spazzes me out.

There has been a bit of a downturn, but my 401K is fine. Small losses but nothing unexpected. Our financial planner says we’re in good shape. Our living expenses are covered by Dale’s retirement and other savings right now, and I don’t plan to start withdrawing from my 401K for several more years. Knowing there’s time to recover helps me in my quest to stay relaxed. If you’re squeamish about money like me, I hope you will take comfort in knowing you can learn to live with the stock market.

Retirement is such a privilege. I grew up in a lower middle-class family with low expectations. No one thought I’d make it through high school, let alone college. But I had deep internal drive, and I did the best I could with what I had. I joined the Army right after high school, went to college on the G.I. Bill and moved 23 times in my career.

Although I didn’t do anything particularly brilliant to get here, I was consistently not stupid. I just read that line attributed to Warren Buffet’s partner, Charlie Munger, in this blog post from Joe Hearn at Intentional Retirement. Consistently not stupid seems like such a low bar, but considering the alternatives, I’ll take it. I also liked what Joe said about getting the big things right – a roof over your head, a good relationship with your spouse, good health.

I’m not sure I can ever again be that worry-free diver girl plopped out in the sand on the beach or carelessly sucking down beers in a Mexican bar, but I’d like to channel some of her back to the future. A little less anxiety, a little more live for the moment, trust that I got the big things right and the rest of the cards will fall into place.

As far as channeling goes, I’m thinking I could start small. Naps? Margaritas?

Being social without social media

I’ve always been a feminist. Had the t-shirts, wore the pins. My first published essay was in 8th grade arguing girls should be allowed to wear pants to school. I wrote scathing letters to the editor over the years and marched for the Equal Rights Amendment. Dale drove our red Fiat 124 Spider in a parade of sorts, while I held the placard and shouted:

Hey, hey, what do you say, ratify the ERA!

One could argue I became lazy or complacent with age, but I discovered who I really was and gradually lost interest in making a political statement. Instead, I’ve been living my life as a feminist and voting as a liberal Democrat. Writing about politics or joining protest movements is not my interest or my strength.

But sometimes one must speak up. In my July 4th blog post, I wrote about the decay of civility. And I made a vow to stop being angry with people who voted for Trump. Humans ought to be able to disagree on a wide variety of topics yet still plow forth in pursuit of goodness.

There are dark forces and people with bad intent in this mix, and that doesn’t mean I have to quietly accept their deeds, but it also doesn’t mean I have to come out of the gate screaming. The world has endured terrible leaders, but that was before we all started hating each other. Perhaps we can withstand any political regime if we stop being assholes.

As part of this awakening, I started to reconsider social media. It seemed like I was wasting a lot of time hoping for “likes” when I should be shaping thoughts or even talking with my husband! I also found social media to be rather depressing. Plenty of stories in my feed reaffirmed my beliefs, but if validation and group think is what we’re going for, we may as well watch Fox News.

I enjoyed feeling connected to like-minded people, but it didn’t make me any less lonely. I play golf with women whose names I can barely remember, yet I know your child’s birthday, because you posted those adorable pictures. I love meeting people through blogging and other internet forums, but maybe it’s also time to get to know the people down the street? Even if they turn out to be Republicans.

By the time I finished reading Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now, I decided to disengage from most forms of social media. Twitter and Instagram are already gone. FaceBook will be deleted soon. I’m keeping LinkedIn and maybe Pinterest.

The book’s author, Jaron Lanier, explains how mostly Google and FaceBook use information you share to make money, sow discord and manipulate groups of people he calls “packs.” The algorithms that drive these social media platforms are apolitical – it’s all about social engineering and money. The unexpected consequence is the loss of civility. The uglier it gets out there, the greater your chances of going viral.

I’ve posted a notice on my Retirement Confidential FaceBook page. I’ll be shutting it down in a few days and invited readers to enjoy my blog on this website or via email subscription. I’ve added a few more subscribers, so thank you very much for the follows! You can still share my posts on your own social media pages by using the links in the sidebar on the left or at the bottom of each post.

Lanier’s book pushed me further in a direction I was already going. You may read it and say, I like social media! And that’s fine. We all have to make the decisions that feel right for us.

On a personal note, I will continue to read news sources such as The Washington Post and The New York Times so I can piece together what is important to know and what isn’t. I will continue to engage with bloggers and other internet friends. But I’m also looking for opportunities to engage at a local level. I’m focusing more on kindness and interpersonal relationships … being social without social media.

Letting go of my hostility and expanding my concept of being social has already made me feel happier. I understand anger can galvanize people to take much-needed political action, and I am grateful for their activism. But we’re not all wired for that path. I can support them without having to be them.

For me, anger is a soul sucker.

Reborn on the 4th of July

I’ve spent my 4th of July in bed and sometimes in the bathroom, puking. Woke up with vertigo, which I get occasionally, and it sucks.

Laying there, dozing but mostly dizzy and nauseous not tired, I’ve had time to think about lots of things. For some reason, the soccer team stranded in the flooded Thailand cave weighs heavily on my mind. It’s going to be tough to get those boys out. Dale and I used to scuba dive a lot, and we learned even experienced cave divers die all the time.

People have come from all over the world to help. I was thinking it doesn’t matter where we land on the political spectrum, we want those kids and their coach to live and be reunited with their families. Is it any different when it comes to immigrant families that have been separated? Even those critical of our immigration policies surely don’t want children and their families to suffer.

In my haze, that led me to think about how we’ve been interacting with each other lately. Liberals are to blame. Trump is to blame. Conservatives are to blame. The media is to blame. But under all those labels are people, some with evil intent, but mostly thoughtful people trying to make their way through the world as best they can.

I’m a progressive who supports liberal policies and a robust free press, and I have been in a funk since the election. And I stopped listening to the other side because I was so angry they elected this man to our highest office.

To me, it feels like we’re losing our grip on democracy, and the darkness is settling in. However, assuming the Russians had something to do with it actually made me soften up … divisiveness by design. The majority of Americans didn’t choose what we have now, but I understand all Americans want something better for themselves and for their children. What is it? How can we work together to achieve it? I’m listening again.

Whether it’s kids in a cave or babies at the border, I believe people of all ideologies have the power to focus not on our differences but on what we can do together for the greater good of humanity. Maybe it’s corny and naive, but on this 4th of July, I’m choosing light, kindness and hope.

All of which may save those boys and possibly the rest of us.

 

More cannabis balm, please

Back in the kitchen this week making more cannabis balm. I first wrote about my experience making cannabis topicals here and thought I’d share an update.

In my first post, I mentioned that I gifted free samples to my focus group — two neighbors. They are wonderful people but apparently slackers when it comes to focus group norms. I’ve heard nothing. However, I’ve been using it twice a day, and it’s life-changing. Dale has been using it on arthritis in his hands, and he said it helps a lot.

It’s kind of crazy how much I use — it seems like practically my whole body is crying out for help. I really need a paint roller. But here’s my routine:

  • Knees (routine problematic knees)
  • Spine (bulging discs, etc. common in older adults)
  • Left hip (sciatica related to the bulging discs)
  • Mastectomy scars (post-mastectomy pain and inflammation, especially around the lymph nodes)
  • Elbows (too much golf)

I’m pretty active, and using cannabis balm on creaky body parts keeps me moving with minimal pain. I notice it if I miss a dose or two. I told Dale if you’re not using it twice a day, you’re wasting it, so now I have him on board and we’re going through more.

No problem. I have all the stuff, so it’s easier this time around. And this time around, no freebies for the neighbors, so it should last longer.

If you are not a cannabis user and don’t want to be, I still urge you to consider cannabis topicals if they are legal in your state. This is medicine, and it can make a real difference. You will not get high, although you may turn up positive on a drug test.

Some people swear by CBD, which is a cannabinoid in the cannabis plant that doesn’t get you high. Pure CBD products are for sale in all states, I believe. The literature says CBD works better with at least small doses of THC, which is the cannabinoid that does have the potential to get you high. The two working together is called the entourage effect. But if all you can get is 100 percent CBD, I think it’s worth a shot.

I’ll close with kind of a funny anecdote. I played golf last week with some men in their 70s. I didn’t know them. I showed up as a single and they paired me up with a threesome. So, the one guy is complaining about his aches and pains and said he has to get in the hot tub for 10 minutes to loosen up before he can play golf.

I said, well, I use cannabis cream. He’s like, where do you get that? I said the local dispensary sells it, but I make it myself. He asked if I got the recipe off the Internet, and I said yes. He said, you know what? I might try that. I’ve got some old pot laying around.

Making noise about aging

I’m comfortably retired, healthy and active. We eat fantastic food we cook ourselves, buy wine at the local vineyard and fresh produce from the farmer’s market. There’s world-class beauty in every direction, yet getting out of the car yesterday, I heard myself grunt and groan as though I were miserable.

I can hike for miles, yet getting out of the Honda is a bridge too far?

I asked Dale. “I don’t know,” he said with a heavy sigh, “but we both do it all the time.” To be honest, I noticed Dale’s excessive noise. He’ll be pulling a pot out of the cupboard, and then you hear all this ugh, huh, whoo. Heart attack? Stroke? Aliens?

Are you OK?

Yes! Stop asking me that.

Sure, but try not to act like you’re dying. Unless you really are, and then you’d better tell me or I’ll kill you myself.

Maybe it’s just part of aging. Old people noises? But it doesn’t matter, because we both agreed we’re not going to do it anymore. Oh, there will be those who say it’s impossible to quit, that grunting, groaning and heavy sighs are unavoidable. Yet … I feel certain we purred like finely tuned machines while hiking among the Sequoias last weekend.

As for quitting, we’ll see. I’m thinking abstinence will be hard for Dale, who is not what we’ll call task-oriented. He might think he wants to stop, but that moment will pass, and then he’ll be proud of his little noises. He’ll brag about them at parties, like he saw Janis at Woodstock.

On the other hand, I feel certain I can nip this in the bud. You give me a goal, and I will die trying, even if I make unpleasant sounds along the way.

What do you think? Are these annoying audibles a biological response hard-wired into our aging bodies or a habit we can unlearn?

Back to school for cannabis lessons

They say we need to keep our brains sharp as we age, so I went back to school. Cannabis school.

As I’ve previously shared, I became a cannabis fan when I had ovarian cancer in 1999. I hated the idea of smoking anything, but smoking pot during chemo probably saved my life. Still, I happily gave it up after I got a clean bill of health and went back to work full speed ahead. I never missed it.

I discovered cannabis again after I retired and was desperate for something to help with post-mastectomy pain after being treated for breast cancer. I got approved for using medical marijuana in California, where I live, and I began the great experiment. I learned you don’t have to smoke it, and you don’t have to get crazy high.

A small daily dose of cannabis tincture or cannabis-infused coconut oil eases my pain and makes me feel good. I use homemade cannabis balm to treat achy body parts, including my knees. A cup of cannabis tea or a hit or two off a vape pen helps me sleep. It sounds like a lot, but these are therapeutic doses that enhance my life.

For my second act, I’d like to be a part of this movement to make medicinal cannabis available to those who need it. I’m eager to explore how I can use my skills and talents to contribute. I’ve been reading a lot, but I wanted to broaden my education, so I signed up to attend Oaksterdam University in Oakland, California. I’m in a four-day seminar to learn more about cannabis overall, but this seminar focuses on the business side of this industry. I even got a 15 percent veteran’s discount!

Yesterday was the first day, and it was great. I’m like a sponge, furiously taking notes, asking the occasional question but mostly just learning, learning, learning. The class demographic is skewed to young men. Class pictures are posted on the walls, and I scanned them on a break looking for older women. There were a couple but not many. More than a few older men.

Other than continuing to write about cannabis, I’m not sure how I’ll use my new-found education. Expand my consulting? Maybe. For now, I think I’ll just enjoy the experience and see what happens.

In the meantime, I will say the trip has been good for my brain. Just driving in downtown Oakland was a jump start.

Tent camping with bears

We had a fantastic time tent camping in the Sierra Mountains, but the trip was almost ruined by bears – the human one I’m married to, as well as the big furry ones that walk on four legs. Both had a part to play during this perilous trip into the woods.

As we entered the park, the rangers handed me a newsletter, which I read word-for-word. That’s how I roll. The first thing that caught my attention was a little article called, “A Fed Bear is a Dead Bear.” Of course, I realize the woods is not a petting zoo, but I was surprised to read about the importance of locking up all scented items in a bear locker.

According to the newsletter, bears are smart, resourceful, strong, hungry and have a highly developed sense of smell. Clearly, we are not talking about Dale, except for the part about being hungry. These are California black bears, and they will slaughter you for toothpaste. They had me at toothpaste, and I said, hey, Dale, be sure to put your ditty bag in the bear locker.

Nothing.

I keep reading. “Bears display aggressive behavior by showing their teeth, stomping their front feet, lowering their head and arching their back or charging toward you.” Again, we are not talking about Dale, except for the part about foot stomping. I repeat for Dale’s benefit, “It says a bear looking for toothpaste can slash through a tent or open a car like a sardine can. Please remember to put your ditty bag in the bear locker.”

Nothing.

The brochure continues. “If you see any of these behaviors, pick up children, stand tall, raise your arms and yell, ‘Bad Bear!’ Slowly back away.” I’m thinking this simple advice could be useful for dealing with human bears, so I tuck that away for later and read it aloud to Dale for greater impact.

Nothing.

“I wonder if you stand tall and yell ‘Good Bear!’ but in your bad bear voice, would it have the same effect?”

Dale wakes up from thinking about his favorite thing (happy hour?) and laughs. Humor always gets a reaction from him, but I can’t find the humor in being disemboweled by a bear.

Are you going to put your ditty bag in the bear locker?

What is this? You’ve asked me five times.

And I got zero responses. This is how conversation works. I say something, and you respond. Try it.

I hate it when you tell me what to do.

Yeah, well, it will suck when a bear rips open our tent and eats us alive. I do not want to be killed by a bear.

Oh, Donna. Seriously.

He thinks I’m overreacting, but he hasn’t read the newsletter! We drop the subject and get ready for dinner. We like to day hike and then return home to our luxurious base camp, where Dale cooks us up a delicious steak dinner accompanied by a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley. I’m starting to mellow as we sit by the campfire finishing off the wine and enjoying the peace and beauty of nature.

We clean up the campsite, putting the cooler in the car and disguising it with a blanket (bears know). I put our dry goods in the bear locker and stuff my cosmetic bag in there, too. Finally, it’s time for bed. We crawl into our zip-together sleeping bags and get all cuddly, and I’m thinking how lucky I am, what a good bear he is, when I remember the ditty bag.

Oh, Dale …

And from under the covers, I hear a growl. Then I see teeth.

YES. I PUT THE DITTY BAG IN THE BEAR LOCKER.

Great! Thanks!

Time for bear snuggles.