Modern Deadly Sins

Someone posted a photo of brightly colored wristbands on Facebook. At first glance, they looked like the charity bands you see: yellow Live Strong, pink Komen Breast Cancer, red AIDS awareness. On closer inspection, they had the names of the seven deadly sins etched into them. My friend was wearing Lust, Sloth and Gluttony. My first thought was: there should be one that reads “Facebooking,” which in turn led to this post.

Just as the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were updated to the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, we should have Ten Modern Deadly Sins. There will be more than seven, because from a retiree’s perspective, many things should send people straight to hell today. I give them to you here, starting, of course, with Facebooking.

Facebooking per se is not a deadly sin, but Obsessive Facebooking is, and many Facebookers are obsessive about it. Deadly sins are often about excess, and FB can be addictive, which leads to damnable excess. Some of my FB friends post so many tidbits that it takes hours to scroll through my news feed. Since these morsels can often be interesting or funny or informative, I’m afraid to skip over them. Go ahead, charge me with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out,) but please don’t do it on my Facebook news feed.

People who are obsessed with FB are sometimes also guilty of the deadly sin of Emoticonstipation. This occurs when you over-stuff electronic messages with emoticons (those yellow smiley faces and such). If you’re going to use emoticons, at least download a variety of styles. Like the cartoon cats. Cats are never sinful.

The modern version of the original deadly sin Gluttony is Gluteny, which emerged from the explosive growth of folks following gluten-free diets. Not everyone who avoids gluten is guilty of Gluteny. The ones bound for hell are those who insist on gluten-free food even when they’re not gluten-intolerant. They drive everyone around them crazy just because they have a FOMO on this food trend.

Closely related to Gluteny is Veganizing. There are many good reasons why people become vegans. Bill Clinton did it because even after his bypass operation, his arteries were building up cholesterol. Being a vegan is not a sin. But trying to convert carnivores to vegans (especially without passing through a vegetarian phase) is a deadly no-no. Let people decide on their own to cut out red meat, cheese and everything tasty known to modern man.

I’ll bet many of you will agree that Apostrophornication is one of the worst transgressions. People apostrophornicate when they misuse (or more likely, fail to use) apostrophes. The two most common examples are using “your” instead of “you’re” and “there” (or “their”) instead of “they’re”. This makes those who respect punctuation and grammar very angry. Since anger is an original deadly sin, that one gets charged to the 'phornicator, too.

Speaking of grammar, Substitupidity (the use of “I” instead of “me,” “she” instead of “her,” etc.) is also a cardinal offense. I’m especially irked when I hear a newscaster commit it. It’s bad enough when local media personalities do this; they’re—notice correct use of apostrophe here—lower down in the network food chain. But national talking heads are frequently guilty, as well. “Send Tom and I a message on FB.” On second thought, don’t.

A truly modern deadly sin is Moblastphemy—talking loud on a mobile phone in public. It’s deadly no matter where you do it, but if it’s in a restaurant or a theater, you should go straight to hell, IMHO.

We must also list Peeping Thongery—it’s as deadly as they come. No explanation needed, but it’s especially lethal for women of a certain age. In the interest of gender-fairness, let’s include Plumbersbuttitis. I know both sexes can be guilty of each of these, but we see Thongery mostly in women and Buttitis in men. In medicine, “-itis” signals the inflammation of something. Plumbers’ butts always look fatter than average, and they inflame our gag reflex. Enough said.

Finally, we have the newest modern deadly sin: Air Humping, a combination of two recent news items. Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel was videotaped “chair humping” the back of a folding chair at the Taste of Chicago event. Singer Miley Cyrus (in an effort to leave Hannah Montana in her rearview) burned “twerking” into the media mainstream with her gyrations on the VMA show. Gag and double gag.

These visuals sent me straight to my stash of vino. Fortunately, moderate imbibing is not on the list of deadly sins, original or modern. Praise the Lord and pass the chianti.

You (Insert Appropriate Phrase Here) for Your Age

Have you noticed how often someone pays you a half-baked compliment these days by ending whatever it is with “for your age”? (Or some equally dismissive qualifier.) A head nod to my friend Keith Mosher for suggesting this blog topic for Retirement Sparks. I knew the minute he said it that he had a great idea—for someone his age.

“You’re really quite agile!” sounds like a vote of approval for how you avoided being mowed down by a fully-loaded, runaway shopping cart in a parking lot. That is, until the person who lost control of the cart adds: “for someone your age.” Lucky for them you’re agile, because we’re also litigious at our age.

“You smell lovely!” brings a smile to your face and lifts your spirits. But then you hear the after-remark: “for an old lady.” That’s when you shoot back: “And you don’t smell half bad either, for an old fart.” Speaking of which, why is it everyone seems to think that people over 65 are out-of-control fart machines? If we pass a ripe one, it’s usually because we really meant to, as a sort of olfactory editorial.

Then there’s the brain-function comments. “You sure seem to have your wits about you.” “You’re pretty sharp!” “You catch on quickly.” All for—you guessed it—someone my age. It’s inevitable that the brainpower of seniors will provoke remarks. What can we expect when we tote around books of Sudoku and crossword puzzles? Some of us do it to fight off senility. Others use them to kill time in doctors’ waiting rooms. Maybe we should wrap them in brown paper bags. Or the recycled cover of Fifty Shades of Grey.

The most offensive comment is: “You’re really interesting to talk to, for someone your age.” This remark is always delivered with a look of utter amazement. Do they really think that the only things people over 65 talk about are their medications and their digestive systems? We read the paper (perhaps more often in a printed version than they do, but we read it.) We keep up on current events and political issues. How else would we know how much better life was when we were younger?

Sometimes I’m tempted to reply: “And you’re surprisingly literate and well-informed for someone so young!” But really, what’s the point? They probably haven’t got a clue about sarcasm.

For most of my adult life, I didn’t wear a lot of makeup. When I painted my face for some special event, colleagues would often tell me: “You clean up nice.” Now when I hear this, it’s usually followed by one of those odious age-qualifiers. I’d like to think I’d still clean up nice even if I weren’t of a certain age. Hope springs eternal.

One thing I’m aware of whenever I’m out is keeping my spine erect, whether I’m walking or sitting. I’m convinced that decent posture is one way to confuse people about how old I really am. I base this on the fact that the elderly are expected to be hunched over, bent over, doubled over or just plain folded over. I know I’m losing this battle when I hear that I have nice posture for my age. That’s enough to make me sit with my head between my knees.

I’ve always walked at a good clip, for two reasons. One is that I’m short, so I need to take three steps for every two that the person next to me takes. That makes we walk briskly. Also, I worked in Manhattan for 20 years. If you lollygag there, you’re a prime target for purse snatchers and muggers. When you walk fast, they figure you’re a native and you don’t suffer fools gladly. They move on to the meanderers. These days my brisk walk is likely to generate one of those “for your age” comments.

No. I don’t walk fast “for my age.” I walk fast for my height. Or for someone my weight. Or for a person who has absolutely no place to be this afternoon and all the time in the world to get there. And don’t you forget it, even if you do have a terrible memory—for someone your age. (Insert sarcasm font here.)

It Seems I Might Be A Tomato

The New York Times ran an article this month about how vegetables have their own seasons within the usual four that we think of. The article’s author, Melissa Clark, called it “microseasonality.” Apparently, each vegetable (and fruit, I assume) has it’s own microseasonal schedule. What especially caught my eye was the evocative language Clark used to describe a tomato’s seasons. It was eerily familiar. Simply put, it seems as though I might be a tomato.

We’re all used to hearing the stages of our lives compared to the seasons of the year. You have the Spring of your youth, your Summer salad days, the maturing Fall of your life and the Winter (of your discontent?) Vegetables can go through all their mircoseasons within one traditional calendar season. Clark’s explanation of the tomato’s progress explained it in a way we can all understand.

They start out “hard and green and mildly acidic.” Could she be describing the “me” of my youth with any more accuracy? People who knew me well back then used to say that I had brass… Well, you get the idea. And in my youth, I was as green as those little apples that God didn’t make. As with many young people, I thought I knew everything, but in fact I knew almost nothing. Or at least, nothing of value.

Like the tomato, I probably reached “peak ripeness” mid-season in my life. That’s when I was the most successful in my career (and financially), though at the time, I expected far greater “success” in the years over the horizon. Silly me. It wasn’t until later on in my personal microseasons that I realized there are so many ways to define one’s own success. And so few of them involve money.

Also like the tomato, the late-season me became “overripe and overly soft.” I mellowed with age and many would likewise credit me with “gaining sweetness,” especially compared to my acidic youth. One look in the mirror also confirmed that I was “losing texture,” unless you count wrinkles as texture, which I don’t. How much more in sync with the tomato could my microseasons be?

I’ll tell you how much more. Clark described tomatoes at the end of the growing season as: “…back to green, not ripening fully before” (horrors) “falling off the vine.” Indeed. In the winter of my microseason I’m realizing that there’s so very much I don’t know. So much I will never know, even if I reach my nineties before I fall off the vine.

But Clark reserved the most apt description for last. She said that the “later-season specimen… has had a chance to grow fatter. The flesh gets flabby, the seeds larger and more distracting.”

Seriously. Is she describing a tomato? Or is she talking about my neck wattle, my wing flaps and my age spots? While I’m comforted to learn that even late-season tomatoes have usefulness, I don’t look forward to becoming pickled or fried. I’m also not anxious to have my “spongy core” cut out.

I prefer to think of myself as aging into a piquant salsa. Or better yet, sliced onto a panini under some locally-made buffalo mozzarella. Drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and garnished with fresh basil. And served with (what else?) a nice bottle of Chianti Classico. Put me in that scenario, and I’ll be content to fall off the vine any time Mother Nature calls me.

Vacation Weekend

As I have done on a few other occasions, I’m taking a pass on posting an essay to my Retirement Sparks blog this week. I’m going to New Jersey for the weekend for a mini-reunion with my Green Pond summer friends. I'm also meeting with fellow committee members who are helping to plan a belated 50^th reunion for our high school class, Morris Hills Regional, in Rockaway, New Jersey.

Jagdish is staying back in Rhode Island to keep an eye on Luke, with the help of our neighbor cat-care lady. Luke gets fed four times a day now, and I’ll have the car, so we need to schedule store coverage and cat care carefully around this trip.

Some of you may be thinking: “Big whoop. So why didn’t you write the essay ahead of time and post it today instead of this lame message?” You don’t understand. Going away for three days takes a lot of planning at my age. Planning which doesn’t leave time for creative writing.

As a precaution, I need to change the litter in at least one of the boxes before I go; it can’t wait until Sunday when I return. But if I change it too early, Luke will reject it later on next week. I also had to try on at least six pairs of linen pants to see which ones fit. Based on the color, I needed to assess underwear status. Women readers will know that one should wear skin-tone panties under white slacks. Probably TMI, but fortunately both of my beige ones were in the clean pile.

I’m spending Friday night with my best friend from grammar school, whom I haven’t seen in who knows how many years (50?) Inherent in that is figuring out when to leave Providence so I don’t hit rush hour in any major metro areas. I also want to avoid getting stuck in gridlock on the Tappan Zee Bridge in the summer weekend exodus from Manhattan to the Catskills. I decided that four pm is a good time to leave. That should give me plenty of time for preparations and packing.

Just in case, I started this process Friday night. I stuffed a canvas tote bag full of paperwork and yearbooks and program ideas for our Saturday high school reunion meeting. This morning, when I dropped Jagdish off at his store, I picked out some little gifts for my friend’s grandchildren. Also something for her home. All of which I left on the store counter. Fortunately, I realized this at the wine store (see below) and circled back to get the forgotten bag on my way home.

Saturday night I’ll be at Ralph’s “harem” in Green Pond. As he did for the big October GP reunion two years ago, he’s invited a group of women for Italian food on Saturday night. We leave our husbands home. A few of us who come a distance stay over. Ralph’s family has their summer house on the market, so this will likely be our last mini-reunion at GP. Sad to consider, but at least we’ll have some good memories to keep us going.

We’ll be spending some time on the beach and that presents an entirely different preparation to-do list. Straw beach tote, sand shoes and beach towel. Check. New bathing suit. Check. The big shave. Check. Inspect and shave again. Check. (Definitely TMI.) New bathing suit cover-up. Check, thanks to Spectrum-India. Several bottles of red wine (for the evening, not the beach). Check and recheck. Ear plugs for me and also for my guestroom-mate. (We both snore a little.) Check and double check.

As you can see, I really had not time available to create one of my typically clever, funny and self-deprecating posts. Well, I’m uploading this, then off to change the litter and attack the beach prep list. (Read between the lines…)

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend as summer begins to wind down and the days get shorter. See you again next weekend.

Retirees’ Uses for Duct Tape and WD40

We’re all familiar with that old saw: use duct tape for things that are supposed to stick together, but won’t; use WD40 for things aren’t supposed to stick together, but do. This is one of the great truisms of life. As my retirement time accumulates, so do my uses for these awesome products.

You may have noticed that I complain about the goat hairs on my chin. Now I also have duck fuzz that’s looking increasingly like sideburns. None of this is hair that I celebrate. I’m uneasy about those waxing strips you see on late-night TV. Older skin is more sensitive to temperature extremes. Plus that wax stuff would eat into my wine budget. I decided to try duct tape to remove my unwanted hair. It was cost effective and it lived up to its reputation.

Here are some tips I developed after doing this several times. Fold over the end of the duct tape about ¼ inch before you stick it to your face. It makes it easier to grab when you pull it off. If it’s humid when you do your toilette, first open the door of your freezer and stick your head in for a few minutes. It will cool you down so you don’t perspire. Ice cubes won’t work, because they leave your skin damp, preventing the tape from adhering.

Do you slip more often on your non-carpeted stairs now that you’re of a certain age? Cut strips of duct tape about 6 inches long and form loops, sticky side out. Place these on your steps where the ball of your foot usually lands. You may need to make a test run, to find the best placement. Now when you go up and down, the duct tape will grip your foot or shoes (or especially socks!) just enough to slow you down so you can keep your balance. Replenish tape as it gets fuzzy.

WD40 can also make your life easier. Do you have difficulty getting your street shoes on? Stop exerting yourself! Don’t risk a heart attack. Spray the inside of the shoe, especially the heel area, with WD40. Also spray your feet, whether you’re wearing socks or not. You’ll glide in like butter. For maximum benefit, do one shoe and one foot at a time. Make a note: if you have heart issues, the cost of the WD40 may qualify for a medical deduction.

Ladies, in swim season, WD40 will be your new best friend when it comes to the on-and-off process of swimwear. (Think pool and beach restrooms…) Spray your outer thighs, hips, butt cheeks and belly with a liberal amount. Your suit will slip on and off like silk. This also works for Spanx at any time of year. WD40 comes in a purse-size container that I’m sure was made just for this purpose.

Here’s a slightly more complicated use for duct tape. If you’re at all sensitive about your private parts, skip the next two paragraphs. If you’re not terribly good with engineering, you might want to refer to the schematic provided.

Older men often have difficulty keeping the boys tucked in where they belong. Duct tape to the rescue! Cut a piece about ten inches long and another about four inches. Place the four-inch piece in the center of the ten-inch one, tacky sides together. This provides a sling for the guys that won’t stick to them. Carefully cradle them in the center of the tape and lift them to where you want them. Press the sticky side of the three-inch long end pieces against your groin area. You might want to shave first.

Older women have a similar problem keeping their girls perky. Make two slings similar to the one described above for men. If your cup runneth over, you may need longer pieces of tape (and a longer sling area). Just be sure to allow three sticky inches on each end.

Here are more uses for WD40 that you’ve probably never considered. Having trouble lately turning the pages of books you’re reading because the paper sticks together? Do bill stubs refuse to go into the envelopes provided to mail the payment? Spray them with WD40, but don’t overspray. Let them dry a bit, then turn the pages of the book with ease, or slide the stub into the envelope without having to tear it apart.

Have you noticed that adding fabric softener to the wash is just one more thing you’re forgetting these days? Too much static on things coming out of the dryer? Spray the legs of your polyester pants (or other non-silk garments) with WD40 and your sausage-cling problems are over.

Duct tape and WD40: Miracle tools for people of all ages. Just think outside the box. Or can. And off the roll.