Requiem for a Wii athlete

My husband and I moved to Texas in 2006, and sometime after that, my sister-in-law gave us a Wii for Christmas. We had a perfect place to put it and enjoyed many hours of play. Then we moved to California and downsized. There was no place to put the Wii, so it sat in a closet with corroding batteries we failed to remove prior to storage.

We’re still in California, but we have a bigger home and a perfect place to put the Wii. All the components were together in a plastic tub out in the garage, and I brought it in yesterday to see if I could get the system set up. I couldn’t find the remote to the TV. I found 5,000 other remotes but not that one. First trip to Best Buy was to purchase a universal remote.

That worked. I set up the Wii and got the right input for the TV. Cleaned corrosion in the remotes and installed new batteries. Some of the functions worked and some did not. Dale and I concluded new remotes would fix us right up.

For the second trip to Best Buy, I started wandering around the game section when a clerk asked if I needed help. Looking for Wii remotes, I replied. He said oh, we haven’t carried those since we stopped selling Wii.

Excuse me?

Apparently, while I was busy earning a living and preparing to retire, Wii fizzled. I completely missed it. Yes, my brain was full, but I feel sort of old and sad I didn’t know Wii wasn’t a thing anymore. No longer an early adopter, no longer a trendsetter. Just another old fogey who isn’t up on the latest thing.

I don’t even know what latest thing replaced Wii. Xbox? I kind of thought that was for teenagers. I certainly don’t want to squander my retirement hunting monsters or stealing cars. I liked sports-oriented games such as bowling, archery, boxing and baseball. The games to improve your balance were also quite good.

Obviously, we need some sort of replacement game. Our Wii was a lot of fun, but I don’t want to throw more money into a trying to resurrect an obsolete system. I would love to hear your suggestions!

In the meantime, I will rest on my laurels, which I must say are substantial. I bowled a perfect game and was an elite Frisbee Dog athlete. I won the Masters! All that’s gone now, but I have my memories.

The 40-year diet plan

People sometimes say how lucky I am to be thin. What’s my secret? While many adults face down mid-life weight gain, I’ve slowly lost 60 pounds over time. I call it the 40-year diet plan.

As for the backstory, I was a thin adolescent but exploded breasts and hips when I turned 14. I struggled with my weight throughout high school. My mom and I joined Weight Watchers together, and that worked … until it didn’t.

I joined the Army at 18 and had to lose 15 pounds just to get in. Then I started eating my way through the mess hall and ballooned to my highest weight – 195 pounds. Fortunately, the Army made us run, and I began a lifelong love of fitness. Running eventually gave way to walking, but once I started moving, I never stopped. I lost 50 pounds over four years.

Then I relapsed in my late 20s. I gained about half the weight back and hated it. I went on crazy diets. Remember the Beverly Hills Diet? I lost weight, lost my periods, lost my good sense. My husband was so pissed at me, and my mother said, “You’ve been obsessed with your weight since high school, don’t you think it’s time you figured this out?”

I decided to accept myself exactly as I was. I vowed I would never go on another diet … ever. I would eat delicious and healthy food, and if I gained weight, fine. If I lost weight, fine. I was not going to ruin my life over this. I started walking more, thinking of it as much-needed mental therapy not exercise.

Over three years, I lost the weight I had gained and kept it off for the next 30 years. I continued to exercise and eat well – focusing on health but never saying no to anything I really wanted. I thought, well, just keep doing what you’re doing, and who knows? You might look pretty good in 40 years.

When I was 59, a routine physical led to a diagnosis of breast cancer. That same physical revealed slightly elevated blood sugar, so I started reducing sugar and carbohydrates. I lost another 10 pounds over two years. At age 62, I’m holding steady at 135 on my 5’7” frame.

I still exercise (mostly walking) and eat everything I want, but mostly I want real food that doesn’t come in a package. I wouldn’t waste my calories on a store-bought cookie. Pass on fast food. Haven’t had a soda, diet or otherwise, in at least 10 years. On the other hand, we eat pizza every Friday!

My breasts are gone, and I did not have reconstruction. Just flatness and a lattice of scars. There’s a humongous vertical scar up my belly from ovarian cancer in 1999. I love my body for surviving all that, and after all those years of beating myself up, I love how I look! Best of all, I feel great.

But I don’t feel worthy of praise simply for being thinnish, just as people who are bigger or weigh more are not worthy of shame. This is just who I am now, who I became because of lifestyle choices and possibly wear and tear.

It’s never too late. You can learn to love your body. It’s not about losing weight as much as it’s about being happy and celebrating life. Move your body as much as you can and continue to enjoy delicious healthy food. See what happens. That’s my 40-year diet plan, which of course, isn’t a diet and isn’t a plan.

Cannabis topicals for creaky body parts

During my first visit to a cannabis dispensary earlier this month, I purchased a ½-ounce jar of cannabis topical cream for $10. I used it on three painful areas – knees, mastectomy scars and spine. It was like magic cream for creaky body parts, so I went back and bought a 1-ounce jar for $20.

Then I just made it myself.

The store-bought topical runs about $20 per ounce. I have two capital expenses – a Magical Butter Machine ($175) and a Nova decarboxylator for $180. Excluding those costs, my topical balm weighed in at about $4 an ounce! And it was easy.

Topicals are a great way for older adults to experience the benefits of cannabis. Most of us have more aches and pains as we age, and there’s strong evidence cannabis helps. Topicals do not get in your bloodstream, and that means there’s no high, even if the product contains THC. However, I do believe it shows up on a drug test. I recommend you purchase topicals from the dispensary until you decide:

A) It works

B) You can’t live without it

C) You’d like to save money

D) You are willing to go to the trouble of making it at home

I hope to share success stories for homemade topicals in the future, but be forewarned, my recipes will use the Magical Butter Machine. Many DIY cannabis cooks live just fine without a Magical Butter Machine, but it makes everything so much easier. Since I plan to keep myself in cannabis products for many years to come, I decided to spring for the decarboxylator.

Here’s how I understand decarbing. When you smoke or vape cannabis, heating it up releases the cannabinoids such as THC or CBD. But if you’re cooking with it for edibles or topicals, you have to heat it up differently to release the cannabinoids. That process is called decarboxylation. The first time I decarbed using a Corning casserole in the oven, and it worked fine, but I was convinced to buy a specialized machine because there’s less waste and no smell.

I used a combination of recipes from the book that came with the Magical Butter Machine for infused coconut oil and the website Wake & Bake for the balm. The cannabis was on sale at a local dispensary during 411 week, and pretty much everything else came from Amazon or the local grocery store – beeswax, lecithin, olive oil, coconut oil and essential oils. I used tea tree and peppermint. The little jars came from Amazon and the labels from Staples.

I’m not declaring it a victory yet, which is why you don’t see the recipe. Just teasing you! It looks great – the texture of chap stick or shea butter. It’s firm but melts when you touch it and is easily spreadable. The store-bought version was creamy like a lotion, and I think it’s just a matter of whipping it up.

I started using it today and gave free samples to my focus group – two neighbors! Both were excited. One personally thanked God I moved next door and said I am using my retirement wisely.

All I asked in return was their honest feedback. What did you use it for? Did it work? Do you like the smell or not? How was the consistency to work with? I’m looking for some validation that I’m on the right path so I can begin to experiment with other recipes.

Bottom line: I don’t actually want to sell the product, but I would like to share quality-checked recipes on this blog and maybe even put together a cookbook for DIY cannabis topicals! It’s so much fun to think about.

Have you tried topicals? Are you interested in learning more about how to make them yourself?

Yogurt and the absence of bullshit

I had a fun-filled week, the most fun yet, and I thought, this is what retirement is all about! I played a lot of golf, but it doesn’t matter how you find fun – just find it and enjoy the absence of bullshit.

Yes, I said it. The best thing about retirement is the absence of bullshit. For background purposes, you should know I grew up in a dysfunctional family replete with said bullshit. So, what did I do when I graduated from high school? I joined the Army, where they invented bullshit.

After the Army and college, I joined the workforce, spending much of my career in a corporate setting. Some might say corporate jobs are the definition of bullshit, but for many, they are completely satisfying. Perhaps others are better at handling nonsense. I think it depends on what you do and where you are in the pecking order. I was a journalism major who spent my professional life in public relations.

I’m grateful I was able to earn a good living on my meager talents. And in the words of Bob Dylan, you gotta serve somebody. I was truly proud to serve my country and the excellent companies that were kind enough to employ me, but I don’t miss it.

Retirement is life in the bullshit-free zone. It’s like the vacation you would have had if they just left you alone. No drama, no phone calls at night, no emails that must be answered before you take your next breath, no crazy deadlines, no stupid decisions driven by ego or possibly madness.

Don’t have to worry if my hair looks appropriate for the office, and no one cares what shoes I wear. No alarm. The onset of daylight usually wakes me up, and the day is open to whim. True, there are always chores, paperwork and appointments. But they are my chores, and no one jumps in during the middle and says, “Stop! Everything you know is wrong!”

Dale and I saw a lot of the world when we were young and don’t have a big travel Jones. Lived overseas for eight years – we just like hanging out, reading, writing, cooking, tending to our home and enjoying our hobbies.

As for hobbies, I made a perfect batch of yogurt after several unsuccessful tries. Fresh homemade yogurt is a worthy retirement pursuit.

I’ve also been using topical cannabis for various aches and pains. With four rounds of golf in five days, I can tell you, it’s working. The exciting part is I’m going to make it myself! I’ve ordered all the supplies, and I should have a batch done by the end of the weekend. I can’t wait to share more about this experiment.

Also on the docket for this weekend: Our first attempt at Tomahawk steak, which looks like something Fred Flintstone would eat. We are also doing an inventory of our camping gear – the season is upon us! And being able to camp in the middle of the week should open up some primo spots.

All in all, my expectations for retirement were pretty simple, and I would say I am significantly exceeding them. Of course, the future is filled with endless possibilities, but for now, my happy low-key bullshit-free life feels pretty good.

Yard work! A retirement hobby!

I said I wouldn’t do it, but I did. I signed up for yard work.

Dale and I wanted a retirement home with a modest yard, but in a planning oversight, we never actually agreed on who was going to do what. Fortunately, our Homeowner’s Association maintains the front yard. And that is probably why I haven’t killed him while he sleeps.

The back yard is a different story. The yard is not large, but neither one of us has been interested in general upkeep. We have a small patch of lawn, this is California after all, and we use a push mower. That’s Dale’s job, but I have been known to break out a push while Dale admires the scientific miracle of growing grass.

We were sitting outside last evening enjoying happy hour, and after the appropriate amount of lubrication, I said we should make it prettier out here! Something simple we can maintain ourselves! He happily agreed.

It was going so well until I said it. Said that thing.

I would like to see a defined edge around the lawn.

He thinks I’m obsessive. Who needs a crisp edge on their lawn? We do. We need an edger. We have one. Really? We certainly seem to be devoid of edges. He said we have a weed wacker, and apparently it has been resting in the garage with the rest of his power tools.

OK, I do know a thing or two about edging. I had a gas-powered Echo Grassmaster 5000 several houses ago, and dang, you could race trucks through the deep gap between the lawn and the beds.

When the Echo died, I gave up yard work for, oh, I don’t know, my real job? Dale assumed lawn duties and bought a week wacker because it sounds like something he would buy. Wacky weeds! What’s up with that?

We get this thing out, and he demonstrates. He said the string will wear out fast when it hits the brick trim, so you have to stop about every 30 seconds to pull the string. What happened to the function where you just tap it and more string comes out? Oh, that hasn’t worked in years. But doing it manually doesn’t work either. It’s impossible to yank that string out. I said this is a pain in the ass, and he said yes.

I butchered a strip of lawn and I said, that’s it. This is a piece of shit. This is the wrong tool for the job. This belongs in the trash. He said yeah, probably. I said I’m buying a real edger. He said absolutely, you should have one.

And all of the sudden he is Johnny Mission – let’s go to Home Depot and buy you an edger! He went to hold my hand as we walked in, and I gave him the Melania swat. I said you’re just happy I’m signing up for this. He said, oh, come on, but I saw the lazy little gleam in his eyes.

We ended up buying a lightweight Ryobi – I mean, I am not the strapping lass of my youth, and neither one of us is young anymore. I do not believe it will give me the precise military edge of my dreams, but it has a pivoting head that puts down some sort of edge. A less compulsive edge both of us can master. Because I recognize yard work, like marriage, is all about compromise.

And that’s how I got signed up for sucked into yard work.

Finding your rudder

Have you thought about how you’re going to spend your time in retirement?

Since I last wrote about the role of work in retirement, I’ve been cooking, sleeping, walking, reading, playing golf and cleaning the house. I’ve also been writing and gearing up to establish my business as a communications consultant. I’m busy and sometimes wonder if I am setting myself up for the same sort of drudgery I escaped when I retired.

Afraid to fail? Afraid to succeed? What if this isn’t my passion? My life is good, and I don’t want to mess it up by taking on too much. Or taking on boring. For many of us, finding a balance between work and play will be the challenge of our older years.

Retirement is freedom, and I love having more time to pursue many interests. However, my interests include some sort of work. Paid? Maybe. Volunteer? Maybe. Work redefined. I don’t want to go back to my pre-retirement life, no regrets there, but I’m not wired to take it easy, either.

As I explained this angst to my long-suffering husband, he said, “You can’t be rudderless.” And once again, he nailed it. I need to feel a sense of purpose. Jobs gave me purpose but not always passion. Writing gives me a sense of purpose, sometimes even passion, and part of me says that should be enough. But the other part of me wants to see what else I can do. What else?

But wait. Then there’s the voice in my head that says, why can’t I be rudderless? More is not better. Would learning to handle life without a rudder be a worthy pursuit?

I think of my husband, who is brilliant and knows a lot about a lot. His friends call him Mr. Wizard. I encouraged him to teach, which he readily dismissed. I said you have so much knowledge, wouldn’t you like to share it? He said, no, knowing it is enough. I think knowledge for knowledge’s sake is his rudder.

Wow. I often wish I could be more like him. I know a little about next to nothing, and I can’t wait to spill my beans. But sometimes when I see stupid or mean stuff in the news or on social media, I want to quit writing and go live in a cave. Dale doesn’t do social media at all. Still, we both know isolation does not portend a long and healthy life. He and I just have to push ourselves in different directions.

For me, aging well is not only about being physically active but also about engaging in intellectual pursuits, connecting with people and contributing in a meaningful way. Retirement could be 30 years or longer, and we need hopes and dreams that will carry us through to the last breath.

All that to say I’m still not sure what this 30-year gig is going to look like, but I’m choosing purpose, and I’m choosing to stay visible. Whether you are retired, just starting out or somewhere in the middle, most of us don’t find an all-encompassing passion, but purpose is attainable.

Find your rudder.

 

A first-timer visits the cannabis dispensary

Although I have been using medical cannabis for about six months, until yesterday, I had never visited a dispensary in person. I order online, and the cannabis is delivered to my house. The dispensary visit went about as expected, if you expect that, somehow, I will mess things up.

I had my Medical Marijuana Recommendation, which is still required in many places throughout California. I got mine from HelloMD. Not all dispensaries (including the one I visited) are licensed to sell retail. They copied my documentation and driver’s license while I sat in the nicely appointed waiting room filling out a form with address, etc.

When all was ready, a click opened the door to an inner chamber, a small store with glass-covered display cases. A young man (the budtender) waited on me. I said I was looking for Kiva Terra Bites, chocolate-covered dried blueberries that are supposed to be good for insomnia. I’ve written about other sleep remedies here and here, but I wanted to compare and contrast.

Check, he says, they have the Terra Bites, and if I like them, I should come back on Mondays, when they’re on sale. Nice.

While I was there, I checked out the displays to see what else looked fetching. I saw a small jar of a topical cream called Dabba. A brochure on the counter said it provides natural pain relief for 34 different conditions, from arthritis and eczema to neuropathy, phantom limb syndrome, sunburn, gun shot wounds and menstrual cramps. Obviously, I need this product.

I paid for my purchase in cash as required (I saw an ATM machine in the lobby). The budtender put my goods in childproof packaging and gave me a quick tutorial on how to open it. I also got two free pre-rolls and a little loose bud. Free pre-rolls seem to be common. I don’t smoke the joints, but they mysteriously disappear from the cabinet where I put them, so I’m pretty sure Dale is up to no good.

It looked as though I would get out of there without incident, when I saw two doors that appeared to be exits. One door was clearly marked, “Not an Exit.” Two guys were standing there, talking in front of the other door. Door number two did NOT have a sign regarding its role in life, so I assumed it WAS an exit and said excuse me, as I went to turn the handle.

No alarms actually went off, but I can still hear the sirens in my head. One of the guys said, stop! Miss, you cannot go in there! I’m freaking out. I guess this is the door to the mother lode? I backed away slowly and said in the same voice I use with TSA agents, “Can you please tell me where the exit is?”

They point to a door at the opposite end of the room. The exit, by the way, did not say, “Exit.”

I will have a full report on the blueberries in due time. They are 5 MG of THC per blueberry. That’s considered low-dose, but I ate one last night before bed, and it was too much for me. I felt dizzy and slept weird. Cutting a blueberry in half sounds dumb, but that’s what I will try next. I do believe they make them in 2.5 MG, which is probably better for my dainty self.

As far as the topical goes, I put it on my knees, my back and my mastectomy scars. I felt almost immediate relief – very similar to Penetrex but better. As it happens, I was on HelloMD chatting with one of the doctors, and she said topicals are a must for treating my post-mastectomy pain. She said to put it on several times a day for a week, and it might even make the pain go away permanently.

This is my first experiment with topical cannabis, which may be the best thing yet for older adults suffering from a variety of ailments. Cannabis creams will show up in a drug test, but they do not get you high. If you are open to the idea of using cannabis to treat pain and inflammation but don’t want to consume it, topicals are a good option.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress. So far, the only downside is a pungent odor for a couple of hours after you apply it – not offensive to me but definitely cannabis – to the point where I didn’t think I should go to the supermarket with Dale. It’s perfectly legal, not like they are going to kick me out of Whole Foods, but I really don’t want cannabis to be my signature scent.

 

Thinking about missiles and dinner

Just prior to my retirement, I was working on a couple of intense communications projects involving missiles and people who love them, and while I love the people who love them, mostly I was bored and thought about dinner.

Retirement freed up my brain to think about dinner without the distractions of incoming missiles. My husband and I spend a good bit of our day thinking about dinner, shopping for dinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner and then talking about it afterward. However, Dale is retired military, so I’m pretty sure he thinks about missiles, too.

Dale and I are both avid cooks, so for us, dinner is a hobby, the highlight of the day. Well, that and happy hour. When we were both working, it was an opportunity to connect after a long day at the office. Now it’s an opportunity to connect after a long day of getting in each other’s way.

Although we’re not overly materialistic, we do like our kitchen stuff, old and new. We still use the dishes we bought at the PX when we got married almost 40 years ago, and we have a handheld mixer from the early 80s. Dale has a vintage Wearever Super Shooter specifically for making cheese straws. Then there’s the yogurt maker, the juicer, the Instant Pot. We converted a downstairs bedroom into the Williams Sonoma annex.

I also like what I call side dishes. Artichoke plates, egg cups. Bar ware. Pasta bowls. My sister makes us beautiful two-sided cloth napkins, my favorite being pizza on one side and garlic on the other.

We sometimes take sides on what to have for dinner, but during the meal itself we may bicker over what we had for dinner on that rainy Saturday in June of 1998. Remember, it didn’t rain until late? No, it was pouring down when I woke up. I’m pretty sure it was a rib-eye. I remember buying it. No, he says, I bought it, I remember it was on sale at Publix. No, it was Harris Teeter. No, they had closed by then.

Eating together unlocks the memories so we can argue about whose version is correct.

I don’t understand sacrificing dinner to climb the ladder at work. I met several high-powered women executives in my career who said they usually ate a bowl of cold cereal for dinner because they worked such long hours. A former boss said she often ate a granola bar in her room during business travel, presumably to win the prize for saving the company money and free up more time for emails.

Now, I get the whole thing about holing up in the room after a day in close quarters with vice presidents and their ilk, but I had different priorities. Bath fizzies! Movies! Room service! I didn’t care if I had to pay for it myself. It was like a fiesta. I enjoyed the time alone, but the best part was coming home, when Dale would make something delicious to celebrate my return.

We make almost everything from scratch and do focus on healthy foods, but we also have lots of not-so-healthy food rituals:

  • Comfort Food Tuesday
  • Full Mexican (Mexican food Friday, Saturday and Sunday night)
  • Meat Weekend (Meat Friday, Saturday and Sunday night)
  • Pizza and Beer Friday

I know there’s plenty of serious stuff going on in the world that probably needs my attention, but as you can see, I’m kind of busy.

The man on the train

Like many adults from dysfunctional families, I was angry with my father for years over his failings as a parent. With counseling and a one-time encounter with him 35 years after he died, I found peace.

My father, Bill, drank and was emotionally and verbally abusive. Much of the time, it seemed he wanted nothing to do with his wife and kids. For as long as I can remember, he slept in a camper parked in the backyard.

As a teenager, Bill left an impoverished home in Cleveland during the Great Depression and road the rails. He bummed his way around the country and was on his own for years when he got drafted. While AWOL, he met my mother in a bar back home. Married her, and after the war, he went back to Cleveland to pick her up and take the train out to California.

The newlyweds landed in Los Angeles with a little money saved up and bought a corner store that sold candy and cigarettes. Bill ran the store, and Mom worked in a bank.

Bill was notorious for closing the store and going to the movies or hanging out in bars. My mom went to check on him during a lunch break and found a stranger behind the counter. The man said Bill gave him the store, and it turned out to be true. That is when they headed for the suburbs, where he started sleeping in the backyard.

I happened to mention the camper to my counselor.

Why do you think he slept out there?

He was a ramblin’ man.

Dad rode the rails and struggled to accept the responsibilities of family life. Sleeping in the camper made him feel unbridled.

Counseling helped me forgive my father, who died when I was in my early 20s. I saw him for the first time not as a broken child but as an adult, and I saw he had many wonderful qualities. Not that his behavior was justified, but at some point, you realize people can only do so much with what they have. Still, I wondered how my life might be different if I had felt a father’s love.

I left California shortly after high school and only came back about five years ago when I thought it was safe. I used to ride the bus to work. Most mornings, I walked to the Caltrain station to catch the early bus, which left at 5:30 a.m. A handful of us would gather in the dark at our stop near the train tracks and wait for the bus to pull up.

One morning, a freight train zoomed by headed south, toward Los Angeles. I looked up to watch it pass. As the last car pulled into view, I saw a young man in clothes that looked to be from the 1940s, sitting on the back smiling and waving at me.

It was my father, and I suddenly felt engulfed in his love.

 

A trip to Ulta

They say millennials love them some Ulta and spend a small fortune there on makeup, but to me, it’s like the creepy funhouse at the carnival. However, I needed conditioner. As I entered, I heard a guy talking to his wife. He said, “And I don’t like these surprise Ulta trips, either.” My husband, meanwhile, was hiding safely in the car. I said 10 minutes, but it was more like 30. Things happened.

In the category of too much information, I have this itchy discolored patch of skin on my back called Notalgia Paresthetica. Dale calls it my nostalgia. I had just visited the dermatologist, who suggested I experiment with topical treatments for the itch. Lotions with Alpha Hydroxy Acids (AHAs) may help.

Seemed like a good idea to look for it at Ulta since I was already there. I went through the cheap stuff aisles and then made my way over to the fancy stuff. An older and beautifully groomed makeup enthusiast with silver hair was shopping the same zone, and she said to me, “This cream is supposed to get rid of wrinkles.”

I said, oh, wrinkles, I try not to worry about them, and she said that’s because you don’t have them. I showed her my neck, like what are you blind? And then she showed me hers.

“Look at this!” And she points to a small spot under her chin. I couldn’t see it at first, but basically it was a scar. She said it was from a facelift gone bad. She starts rattling off the doctor’s name so I would never go there, and I said got it, no problem.

She asked politely how old I was. 62. She said I had the skin of a 50-year-old. Thanks, I replied, even though I’m not sure I feel right about being grateful for misguided illusions of youth. She told me she was 78, and I gushed a bit and said she looked fantastic. She stroked her neck and said once again how badly her facelift was botched.

By this time, I did not believe it was my destiny to find the lotion I wanted. As I was looking for an escape route, she started in on her next topic, which was what to eat so you look younger. Pro tip: lots of fruits and vegetables. Then she told me about some pill you can take that also helps.

Finally, I said, good luck on your journey and slowly eased away, back to the shampoo and conditioner section, where I know my shit. Later, I dropped off the ball and chain (Dale) at home and went to Marshall’s in pursuit of golf clothes at rock bottom prices.

For a long time, I hated shopping and didn’t give much thought to what I wear, but I’m coming around again. Like a second wind. Shopping is more fun now that I have the time to search and wait for bargains. The idea of finding stylish retirement clothes on a retirement budget is a challenge that strangely appeals to me.

Anyway, who appears but my friend from Ulta. She said, “Oh, hello, we meet again!” I smiled and said hi but kept moving. She said, “Don’t worry. I won’t lecture you again.” I guess she realized she went a bit too far, and that made me like her.

I watched her walk away in her snug little jeans, and I thought, that is a good-looking woman. I would hope to look that good at 78, but it seemed to me she was still mourning the loss of 48. And it kind of breaks my heart. We are smarter and stronger and better than we’ve ever been, but are we irrelevant unless we cheat time?

On a positive note, I did score a pair of Callaway shorts for $12. And I ordered my AHA cream on Amazon.