Why We Forget More As We Age

Recently I discovered a scientific basis for why we forget so much as we get older. To explain this, I need to put it in biological context. A woman is born with a finite number of eggs in her ovaries. Once they’ve all made that monthly journey down her fallopian tubes (or have shriveled up in situ), there are no more eggs to be had.

It’s much the same with brain cells wired for memory. Our brains have a finite capacity for the number of things we can remember. Once our hippocampus is full (usually as we approach retirement age), there’s no more room for new stuff. Depending on your sentiments and the type of brain you have, you either fail to store any new information, or the new information bumps out something older that’s already in there.

If you’re paying attention, you’re no doubt wondering how your gray matter decides whether to refuse to remember new information vs. getting rid of something older, and what that "something older" might be. A key factor is the state of the economy when you reach your golden years.

Accountants will be familiar with two ways to value inventory: LIFO (Last In, First Out) and FIFO (First In, First Out). In an inflationary economy, companies prefer LIFO accounting. Inventory you use up is valued at the higher cost of a recent purchase, rather than the lower cost of something procured perhaps years earlier. (Yes, I know that companies can’t just switch back and forth willy nilly.)

An older brain will simply refuse to remember something new unless it’s really important. In that case, in a deflationary economy (speaking hypothetically, of course), a FIFO brain jettisons the oldest memories first, if it can find them. A LIFO-economy brain bumps out one of the more recently-acquired pieces of information. This explains why, in the real world, those with failing memories can often recall things from decades past, but not from yesterday.

Like everything else involved with gray matter, this is not a simple, clear-cut process. There’s a certain amount of emotion involved, too. If the positive emotional value of the memory about to be expunged is at least twice that of the new item, the brain will refuse the new information. Similarly, if the negative baggage of the old stuff is twice that of the incoming, it’s out with the old, in with the new. I hope you’re getting all of this.

If you’re of a certain age, expect to be forgetting more and more recent knowledge from now on. Baby Boomers have little chance of approaching retirement in a deflationary economy. Interest rates may start ratcheting up next year. If rates go up, can inflation (and LIFO memory) be far behind?

Getting back to the ovary/eggs comparison. Scientific advancements enable a woman to use a donor egg to create a baby. We need to co-opt that science for gray matter in order to counteract the forgetfulness that comes with aging. We donate blood. We donate bone marrow. Is it too much to ask to be able to donate a few cells from one hippocampus to another?

While we wait for this breakthrough, there are certain mental exercises you can do to help you retain the memories you cherish most. If you were paying attention three paragraphs back (and if you’re not functioning in extreme LIFO mode), you’ll remember that emotions can influence which older memories get expunged to make way for new ones. This tidbit is the basis for your exercises.

Decide which memories you are determined to hold onto. Pair them with some positive emotional imagery. Focus on this pairing for at least two minutes. The emotional connection will now override the LIFO/FIFO functioning of your brain. The memories you want to keep will remain, regardless of where they are in the LIFO/FIFO hierarchy.

Conversely, think of something you’re perfectly willing to forget. Pair it with something repulsive in your emotional repertoire. Focus on this pairing for at least four minutes; (bad stuff takes twice as long to jettison). The emotional connection will similarly override the hierarchy.

There you have it. A simple explanation for why we forget more as we age and easy-to-perform exercises to manage this problem while we await a scientific breakthrough to allow brain cell transplants.

In the meantime, it’s a good idea to scatter some notebooks around your house and in your car. And several pens or pencils. Write down anything really important, and then hope you don’t forget where you put the notebook. You can thank me later, if you remember.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

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I recently read Ellen Degeneres’ book Seriously… I’m Kidding. In one chapter, she wrote about the lies we all tell. An example she used: you’re on your way out the door to work when you notice a stain on your shirt. You’re too lazy to change, so you tell everyone it happened on the way to the office.

While we all tell white lies, retirees tell more of them. Our lives are a petri dish of little lies. We also lie for different reasons than when we were younger. Young people are prone to one type of lie: the Get Out of Trouble one. It begins with “the dog ate my homework” and progresses to “we ran out of gas.” (Remember what you were doing when you told that one?)

I’ve identified six types of lies that older folks tell. These do not include Get Out of Trouble, though at least one senior lie resembles that youthful one.

The first senior lie is the Embarrassment/Matter of Pride lie. Your daughter phones to check if you took your medicine that morning. “Of course I did,” you reply, indignantly, on your way to fetch the day-of-week dosage container that has not yet been opened today. Although this resembles the youthful Get Out of Trouble, it’s not fear of getting into trouble that’s behind it. It’s the embarrassment of having to admit you once again forgot.

The second type is the Ignorance/Forgetfulness lie. The senior shuttle bus can take you to the local market every Tuesday at 10 am. Your neighbor asks why she didn’t see you on it last week. “I didn’t need to go to the market. I have everything I need,” say you-of-the-empty-cupboard.

This is not the same as simply lying about something you forgot. With the medication example, you lied knowingly when confronted. The second type is done in complete innocence. You didn’t know about the shuttle, or you forgot you ever knew. Rather than admit that, you fabricate a lie to divert the conversation elsewhere.

Type three becomes increasingly common as we age: the Convenience lie.

Normally, I don’t park in restricted areas, but lately I find it harder to resist convenience. The other day, I pulled into a “No Standing” zone in front of the bank so my husband could use the ATM. His knees are creaky and he uses a cane if he’s going a considerable distance, but he’s fine for shorter walks.

As he was leaving the car without his cane, I asked him to take it with him. “That way, if anyone says something to me about parking here, I’ll tell them it’s because my husband is an invalid.” I could hear Ellen Degeneres chastising me: “Liar, Liar, pants on fire!” I guess my husband couldn’t hear her, because he dutifully took his cane and pretended to hobble up the steps to the bank.

The fourth variation is Delaying Tactics. This buys time while you try to figure out (or remember) what’s being asked of you. Women commonly use this by rooting through their purses, mumbling, “Hang on. It’s in here somewhere.” We’re actually buying time while we try to remember where we put whatever is supposedly in our purse.

Type five is Deflected Blame, which is sometimes a companion to Get Out of Trouble or Embarrassment. I’ve blamed my cats for “scratches” and “claw marks” on my limbs and torso when my GP asks how I got them. I might have stabbed myself with a knife or scissors, but blaming the felines keeps him from lecturing me about my carelessness. Besides, it could have been the cats. Who knows?

This reminds me of one of my favorite movie scenes. It’s from “10,” where Dudley Moore is visiting the pastor to get information on the Bo Derek character. The housekeeper noisily passes gas as she bends over to set the serving tray on the coffee table and the dog races out of the room. The pastor explains: “Whenever Mrs. Kissel breaks wind, we beat the dog.”

The sixth and final senior lie is Keep In Practice, which is just what it sounds like. Even with plenty of occasions to employ the other five types, it’s a good idea to have a few of this last one in your hip pocket, just in case. “My doctor said that’s not a good idea.” (Be careful to never specify which doctor.) “I’m trying to de-clutter, so I packed it away in the attic (or donated it to Good Will.)” “Yes, I know you told me that, but I didn’t realize you were serious.”

If you think you’re immune from telling any of these senior lies, feel free to proclaim your innocence. Chances are, no one will believe you anyway.

Retiree’s Life in Pie Charts

This week’s post is a visual one: viewing a typical retiree’s life in pie charts. Special thanks to my Fly Fox friend for suggesting this idea. If you have trouble reading the legends for these charts, scroll to the bottom. They are in text down there.

There you have it. A typical retiree’s life, explained in easy to understand pie charts.

As promised, for those who have visually-challenged computer screens, below is the text.

A RETIREE’S LIFE IN PIE CHARTS

ITEM                                                                PERCENTAGE

Sleep Cycle

Time Spent Getting Ready for Bed                                                            20

Time Spent Trying to Fall Asleep                                                               30

Time Spent Getting Up to Go to the Bathroom                                        5

Time Spent Trying to Get Back to Sleep                                                  15

Time Spent Actually Asleep                                                                       15

Time Spent Trying to Wake Up and Get Going                                       15

Doctors' Appointments

Time Spent Looking for Doctors' Phone #s                                             15

Time Spent Scheduling Doctors Appointments                                     20

Time Spent Changing Doctors Appointments                                        25

Time Spent in Doctors' Waiting Rooms                                                   32

Time Spent with Doctors in Their Offices/Exam Rooms                         8

Food Cycle

Making Shopping List                                                                                 18

Grocery Shopping                                                                                       20

Unloading Car/Putting Groceries Away                                                   27

Deciding What To Eat                                                                                  25

Preparing Meal                                                                                              6

Actually Eating                                                                                               4

USPS Mail

Occupant Junk Mail                                                                                       25

Personalized Junk Mail                                                                                 15

Charity Appeals                                                                                              10

Bills                                                                                                                   20

Medical Information (Non-Bills)                                                                  25

Personal Mail Worth Opening                                                                       5

Phone Calls

Solicitations (Robocalls and Live)                                                               35

Surveys (Robocalls and Live)                                                                       20

Appointment Reminders                                                                              15

Family Emergencies                                                                                         8

Family Guilt Calls                                                                                            12

Friends Keeping in Touch                                                                              10

Your Social Network

Neighbors You Avoid                                                                                     25

Neighbors Who Avoid You                                                                           25

Neighbors You Never Cross Paths With                                                     10

Neighbors You Spend Time With                                                                   5

Facebook Friends You "Spend Time" With                                                35

Just-In-Case Lifestyle

You may have heard of the Just-In-Time inventory concept popularized several decades back. To reduce costs, manufacturers kept the absolute minimum inventory on hand. They implemented computer systems to help predict orders and locate production facilities to optimize their ability to deliver goods “just in time.”

Today, thanks to digital printing, that concept has found its way into publishing as “Print On Demand.” That’s how I published my three books, through Amazon’s Create Space arm. My books get printed only when (if) someone orders one of them on Amazon.com. Don’t worry. This post is not about selling my books. It’s about the contrarian inventory concept of “Just In Case,” which means it’s about how I came to have such an array of belongings.

“Just In Case” is a mantra that I’ve lived by most of my life. It explains half the clothes that are in my closet, tags still attached. Also a cabinet full of cake pans, just in case I decide to take up baking. And shelves of How To… books and file drawers of reference materials on arcane topics. In preparation for downsizing our house, I’ve been weeding out things I acquired “just in case.” Not an easy task when you’ve spent your life accumulating stuff.

I blame my mother for this. She had a full-size standing freezer in our kitchen that was always chock full of meals she’d prepared, ready to be defrosted at a moment’s notice. She did this—you guessed it—just in case a platoon of friends or relatives dropped in unannounced and needed to be fed. Or more accurately, just in case they dropped in unannounced, period. It was her assumption that people always needed to be fed. (Did I mention my mother was Italian?)

My brother turned this into a standing joke with her. As my mother aged into her eighties, she’d engage us in conversations about who should take what from the house after she was “gone.” When my brother was visiting from California and she started on this, he would ask her teasingly: “Where’re you going, Mom?” And she’d shoot back: “Well, I won’t be around forever, you know.”

This prompted him to reply: “You’re not going to leave us anytime soon. You wouldn’t do that to us.” She’d ask what made him so sure, and he’d point out that the freezer was not completely filled to the brim. “You wouldn’t leave us with the freezer partly empty. How would we feed all the people who’d be coming back to the house after your funeral?” Then we’d all laugh, and my mother would get up and start cooking.

It wasn’t only with food that she believed in being prepared. She kept brand new pajamas and a robe in her dresser, just in case she had to go to the hospital unexpectedly. So you see, it’s mostly my mother’s fault that I’ve been saddled with this “just in case” mentality.

To be fair, I suppose my father is also partly to blame. He amassed a garage full of tools, just in case. We lived in one of the snowiest parts of New Jersey, but our car spent the winters in our driveway. There was no room for it in the garage. In his defense, my father used most of his tools and equipment. Or again, more accurately, he used them or he loaned them out to neighbors.

He had a table saw and a band saw and a wall full of those plastic organizers with the drawers that pull out. He had drivers for every type of screw ever made and wrenches that looked like pieces of bent metal. Back in the fifties I was probably the only teenage girl who knew what an Allen wrench was. I was also the only freshman in my college dorm who arrived with her own toolbox. I became popular quite quickly. (Thank you, Dad.)

Between them, my parents were prepared for every eventuality that could have befallen our household. I was doomed from the get go. Even now, I stock up on extra candles, batteries and bottled water, in case the power goes out for a few days. That was a common occurrence where I grew up, but it hasn’t happened once in my twenty years in Providence. Not even last year, when Connecticut was a disaster.

No, a Shaker lifestyle was never in my cards. Speaking of cards, I have two decks (unused) especially for playing Briscola. You never know when you’re going to run into some Italians who might want to play that card game, so I bought the decks when I was in Piemonte. Just in case.

Changing Tastes

When I did our grocery shopping this week, the type of yoghurt we prefer was nowhere to be found in the local Stop & Shop, a major chain. I usually buy their store brand, but I’ll pay extra for Stonyfield, if that’s the only way I can get the variation we use. That is: regular yoghurt, nonfat, plain, in the large container.

There was exactly one regular S&S yoghurt in the large container, and it was nonfat vanilla. We don’t like the vanilla. The Stonyfield section had several nonfat vanilla ones, and exactly one plain, but it was low fat. I snapped it up anyway, to avoid having to stop at another market. In case you’re not a yoghurt eater, let me tell you why our variation is so hard to find these days. Everyone has hopped onto the Greek yoghurt bandwagon. It’s thicker and creamier, but we prefer regular. Jagdish won’t touch the Greek.

This episode made me realize yet again that people’s tastes change over time, and because of that, food and beverages that I’ve enjoyed for years are suddenly difficult, if not impossible to find. I’m sorry, but the older I get, the more I appreciate some stability in my life. I resent having to rejigger my eating habits to keep up with what’s in vogue this month.

In rare instances, the world’s tastes have caught up with my own. I was a tea drinker when tea wasn’t cool. Now even Starbucks is pushing the teacart. This means I have more varieties from which to choose and every place I shop has a decent supply. Oh, yes, and there’s usually one brand on sale somewhere. Sweet!

One beverage where tastes have changed notably over the years, including my own, is wine. I’ve always gone for drier wines, but I used to prefer white. (These days I prefer red.) I remember when Chablis was the wine of choice when you went out to dinner. Now I rarely see Chablis on a wine list, unless it’s three pages long.

Likewise no longer easy to find is Verdicchio, which was one of my youthful preferences. I loved that citrusy zing and the interesting bottles, especially the cute fish-shaped one and the curvy number. Speaking of the curvy bottle (Fazi Battaglia), I also loved their radio commercials, the ones where diners struggled to pronounce the name. “Bring us some of that Fuzzy Baggies” is particularly memorable.

Mateus was another popular option in the early seventies, an affordable rosé that has pretty much disappeared (mercifully). Most folks pronounced it Mahtoose, but I always gave it three syllables, like Matthew in Portuguese—Mah-teh-oos. Apparently, the pronunciation, like the wine, targets a less-urbane audience, because the makers use two syllables.

Moving on to reds, more recently Pinot Noir (think the movie Sideways) gave way to Merlot, which is giving way to Malbec. I remain partial to a Cab or a nice Chianti. I could do an entire post just on changing tastes in wine.

Back to what to order when you go out to eat, when I worked in midtown Manhattan, one of my go-to lunches at the Brasserie on East 53^rd was steak tartare. It’s gone (the tartare, not the Brasserie), and not just because of Mad Cow disease. Blood red meat is considered too Mad Men macho; it’s also bad for your cholesterol. Everyone is more health conscious now. You’re more likely to see tuna tartare than the beef version.

Sweetbreads and Rocky Mountain (or prairie) oysters seem to have disappeared, too. What’s that about? Did the Internet make it easier for people to find out what they were actually eating? And frogs’ legs. Several species of frogs are endangered. Have we finally grown a social conscience? More likely it’s because France enacted laws to protect them in 1980. I doubt that Julia Childs would include Cuisses de Grenouille in a new edition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Many of my more salient food memories have been tossed into the gastronomic InSinkErator. It should make me angry, but it just makes me sad. I guess I should thank the Lord for small favors. All the items that are on Luke’s increasingly short list of acceptable foods are still available in supermarkets. There are some things he just won’t eat. He’ll sniff them, give them a poke or two and then walk away. That’s probably what Jagdish would do if I served him Greek yoghurt. Let’s hope we never have to find out.

Go Ahead… Make His Day!

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When I was young, let’s say in my twenties and early thirties, I was fly. And, truth be told, pretty hot. Lunchtime often saw me out and about in midtown Manhattan in miniskirts and high heels. It was not unusual for construction workers to make admiring comments, catcalls and an occasional suggestion that cannot be repeated here. Actually, most of the comments can’t be repeated here, either. Looking back, I realize that it felt good to be appreciated, regardless of the source.

Unless my memory has huge gaps, decades went by without any catcalls. The only appreciative comments I remember from my forties and fifties were compliments on my perfume. I got those quite regularly, from both men and women. The men often asked the name of it, so they could buy it for their wives or girlfriends. It was Issey, by Issey Miyake, by the way, and my niece is the one who hooked me on it.

Then there was one memorable encounter about six years ago, while I was still working. Once a year, I spent a few days at a local senior center that had what was called an RSVP operation. The center received a government grant in exchange for providing free help with bulk mailings for non-profit groups. The women who frequented the center did the folding, assembling and stuffing.

I checked in periodically to replenish materials and to make sure things were being done according to spec. I was usually dressed in what would best be described as casual business wear—a soft skirt and blouse or sweater. One day as I was leaving, I crossed paths with an elderly gentleman; he was probably in his eighties. He said something complimentary—I can’t recall exactly what—and I smiled and thanked him. I would have hugged him, but one has to worry about the tickers in older gents.

I was reminded of this encounter recently as I was about to pull out of a Home Depot parking lot. A man in his late fifties, or perhaps his sixties—I can’t tell ages anymore—was walking from his car to the store. He was balding. Actually, he was almost completely bald. He had a paunch, but not a sloppy one; his golf-type shirt was tucked neatly into his belted sports slacks. With spine erect, he walked purposefully through the lot. He looked confident, but not arrogant.

I was so impressed to see someone of this vintage with good posture and energy that I almost rolled down my car window to say something to him. “Looking good!” Or perhaps “I admire your posture and the way you walk so briskly.” I wasn’t sure what I should say, so instead, I just drove away. Besides, I was afraid he’d think I was hitting on him. (I’m not fly anymore, so he certainly wouldn’t have considered my attentions flattering.)

Before I even reached the street, I regretted that I didn’t pay him a compliment. He deserved it. He had earned one. I knew that fly or not, anything I would have said would have lifted the spirits of this seemingly ordinary man. I could have made his day, but instead I chickened out. That’s when I remembered the senior gent who had perked me up a few years back.

So, here’s my advice to everyone reading this. If you see someone who looks good or is doing something nice, go ahead… make his day! Let him (or her) know that you’ve noticed. “Way to rock it!” “You look mah-velous!” (a la Billy Crystal.) “You smell awesome!” “Love your shoes!” “Somebody’s been working out!” I could go on, but you get the idea.

Are you too shy to speak up to a stranger? Then give them a big smile, or just a head nod. You’d be surprised how easy it can be to lift someone’s spirits for a few hours, or even for the entire day. Try it. I promise it will make you feel good, too.

By the way, you look great today!

Amusement Park Rides for Retirees

Summer is almost upon us and TV is replete with soft news about the latest amusement park rides, or classic rides that are being refurbished. We don’t hear much about amusement park rides that have been designed (or redesigned) especially for retirees. Good news. I’m addressing that in today’s post.

I grew up in a lake community that was about a half hour from a quaint amusement park called Bertrand’s Island. Several times each summer, a handful of chaperones took a bus full of kids there on Nickel Night. Just as it sounds, every ride cost only a nickel, except for the wooden roller coaster, and that was a dime. The line for the coaster was always long, but once on it, you could pay another dime and stay for another spin. I once rode that coaster 26 times in a row, and it wasn’t even on a dare.

Back in my heyday, one of the favorite rides of teenagers with raging hormones was the Tunnel of Love. You cuddled in a little boat that drifted through dark, winding waterways that eventually whooshed you back to the dock where you began. The ride never lasted long enough. Retirees are welcomed to the Tunnel of Vision, where the boat hustles you through a tunnel that is pitch black on all sides. A blinding light in the middle leads the way out, and you can’t get there soon enough.

One ride I never understood until I started working full time and needed to release some aggression was the bumper cars. Predictably, these have been replaced with Bumper Scooters. If you thought bumper cars were an extreme sport, wait until you’ve taken a spin on Bumper Scooters. The seniors who drive them are so vicious that you need to wear helmets and sign a hold-harmless agreement to go on this ride.

Young girls were especially susceptible to the Fortune Teller’s charms. We knew it was hogwash, but who cared? As long as we were told we’d find true love and live happily ever after. Female retirees are more likely to be lured into the web of the Misfortune Teller. She’ll predict all the physical ailments that are going to befall you and members of your family. Tip her generously and she just may inform you that her “crystal ball” (read: smart phone) malfunctioned. WebMD says things won’t be that bad after all.

Not every amusement park had a Lost Continent ride, but every park for retirees has a Lost Continence. This is not so much a ride as an attraction. It’s a centrally located area with private booths where you can refresh your adult underwear. Vending machines are conveniently positioned inside the doorway. Can’t find it on the park map? It’s near the Lost Memory station, right next to the Lost Eyeglasses booth.

One of my favorite rides was The Whip. I remember once trying to talk my friend into going on it with me. The only way I could convince her was by paying her fare as well as my own. She was, as we say, “a big girl,” and unfortunately, I sat on the wrong side of her. When the Whip got going full bore, centrifugal force pushed her full weight on top of me. I had to pull myself out from under her, fighting the force, to get to the uphill side. The retirees’ version of this ride is The Whiplash. Enough said.

No amusement park worth its salt would be without a Ferris Wheel, and the retirees’ park is no exception. While most wheels today are built taller and taller (think the Millennium Wheel in London, or the Dubai Eye), the one for us seniors suffers from the same height and movement challenges as we do. Every year the Ferris Wheelchair gets a little bit shorter and moves a tad slower. When last I checked, it stood just thirty feet tall, had six chairs on it and took twenty minutes to make one full rotation.

One ride that mercifully has changed very little since our youth is the Carousel. Sometimes now called the Horseless Carousel, the only difference is that there are no animals that go up and down and give us vertigo. Or more accurately: exacerbate our already-existing vertigo. The ride now has just those beautifully painted chariots with tufted leather seats, but you can still reach for that brass ring.

Ah, yes. Nothing says Summer like a trip to the local amusement park. And I don’t mean those Six Flags extravaganzas. I’m talking about the ones with a manageable number of relatively simple rides and attractions. And especially ones designed with retirees in mind. Ticket, please.

Peripatetic Retirees

Ever the optimist, I’m looking ahead to how my husband and I will spend our time together once we’re truly retired. This presumes that I’m eventually successful in dragging him away from his store. Since we’re looking to downsize outside of Rhode Island, I’ve pretty much got that problem covered. In theory, we’ll have side-by-side office space where he’ll work on the web version of his store and I’ll continue to write and to develop some web properties that have been percolating for years.

If you’ve been following this blog, you know that the prospect of a life of nothing but writing and web activity is already beginning to lose its luster for me. Those who know Jagdish keep asking how he’ll survive without his stool and his “ashram.” I think I’ve found the perfect solution to both these issues.

We’re going to take our act—or more correctly acts—on the road. We’ll get an Airstream or Winnebago RV (or whatever the generic is) and travel across the country. This will enable us to see states where we’ve never been, or only breezed through on business. We’ll spend time in the interesting cities that folks have been recommending to us. And we’ll sniff out places where we can hawk our wares and ply our trade.

The first step will be to buy a used RV. The ones in Texas, Arkansas and Missouri seem to be more affordable, but we’d have to travel to get them; catch 22. I figure we’ll need to spend around $50,000 if we want to buy it here on the East Coast. This means that the home we downsize to needs to be at least $50,000 less expensive than what is currently in our budget. It also must be somewhere that will allow us to park the RV in the driveway. (Can you say: “You might be a redneck if…”?)

We’ll need a portable peddler’s cart—the kind you see at craft fairs or on sidewalks in the summer in tourist areas. Most of it will be filled with products from Spectrum-India, Jagdish’s retail store. He’ll have incense, essential oils, wind chimes, singing bowls and more. A portion of the cart will feature my books. I’ll do readings every hour, hoping to lure folks into buying the book after they hear how witty and funny I am. Jagdish will do handwriting analysis, palm readings and henna tattoos.

We’ll spend a week or two in each location, working our way from East to West and back again, following the change of seasons, as appropriate. This way, Jagdish can “set up shop” in all the places that visitors to Spectrum-India have been promoting to him over the years, without having to commit to a long-term lease. He’ll be able to take his stool with him, but he won’t be able to sit there until midnight or later. I’ll get to talk to him all day, and even eat meals with him. What a concept!

We’ll become peripatetic retirees, wandering the country like eccentric vagabonds. Jagdish will be able to hold court with different people every week. His friends back in Rhode Island won’t have to worry about him having store withdrawal. He’ll be like a turtle, carrying his store on his back, in a manner of speaking. I’ll continue to gather pop culture to write about, but with an even broader geographic perspective.

Our list of destinations will be chock full of university towns and artists’ communities. Our peddler’s cart will have stickers from Burlington, Amherst, Charlottesville, Chapel Hill, and Austin. We’ll spend time in Camden, Asheville, St. Augustine, and Taos, Santa Fe and Albuquerque. We’ll camp out in Savannah, New Orleans, and Mill Valley. If we hit the weather right, we’ll stop in Madison, Boulder, and Portland, OR.

Our peddler’s cart will have so many miles on it, we’ll have to buy new tires every few months. (Note to self: add tire expense to budget.) At the end of each year, we’ll evaluate the places we’ve been. We’ll return to the “keepers” the next year and explore new locales to replace the slots vacated by the losers. We’ll take suggestions of cities to add from any and all sources. We’ll shamelessly  mooch meals from people we know in an area and folks we meet along the way.

After a few years, we might even decide to relocate to one of the perpetual winners, especially if it’s more affordable than where we’ve initially downsized. Oh, yes! This is a plan devised at the peak of my creative genius, and without the lubricant of even one glass of wine. Imagine what I might come up with after a glass or two! Or perhaps don’t.

Retirement Limbo Land

When our house didn’t sell in two real estate seasons of trying, we decided to give it a rest for a year. We’re also doing some updates to our kitchen, the planning for which has become close to a full time job for me. In the meantime, we’re trying to keep it “staged” in case our agent has a buyer she feels will be interested in the property. And yes, it’s happened once already.

The market is hot in Providence, in the sense that there’s a shortage of inventory and even big houses are turning quite quickly, sometimes even with multiple offers. But the prices haven’t advanced much since last year and people still want a “done” house. Hence the need for our kitchen updates.

The failure to launch our retirement move has been a good thing for my husband. He’s about two years behind the original schedule for closing the wholesale portion of his business and getting out of his warehouse. As I roll into my third year of pseudo-retirement, I find myself in “Retirement Limbo Land.” That’s where your income is retired, but your expenses aren’t. And the way you spend your time is between a rock (full-time employment) and the proverbial hard place (your idea of retirement bliss).

Yes, I finished and published three books in the first two years after leaving my full-time job. I’m still blogging weekly and I have the idea for and the beginnings of my fourth book. But I’m not feeling warm and fuzzy about spending my retirement just writing. This is in part because my office is in our windowless basement. I need ambient light to be energized.

I’m thinking about getting an IPad so I can write in one of our sunny rooms (since I’m still paying real estate taxes on them). But then I’ll need WiFi service, or at least a wireless router in my basement. (Maybe these are one and the same; I don’t know.) This apparently involves upgrading from DSL and/or paying extra for having access from more than one computer. It seems crazy to go through all of that when we’re going to be here for just another year or so. (God willing and the cricks don’t rise…)

This is just one aspect of Retirement Limbo Land. Here’s another that will make you sad. As part of the house staging, I boxed up our photos, including those of the cats. I kept one photo of Pansy out, since we sent her to the Rainbow Bridge shortly before I retired. The rest were put into a box carefully labeled “Keep.” Last October, we lost Lily. I have no photo of her near my desk because the “Keep” boxes were all stored behind the “Sell” and “Donate” ones, and I haven’t been able to turn up the photo box.

Ditto for my high school and college yearbooks. When someone from my past wants to reconnect via Facebook, I can’t cheat my way into “remembering” them by looking up their yearbook picture.

There’s a similar sob story behind my sewing and craft supplies. I could really use that packet of felt to reinforce the holes in my favorite jeans. And the iron-on tape to fix the lining inseams on my linen pants that are fraying. I can’t properly repair my husband’s sweaters without a crochet hook to re-knit the stitches that got snagged and created a ladder down the front. I refuse to go out and buy new supplies when I know I have them somewhere. Besides, the plan is to downsize, not augment.

I have many other examples of things I’ve stashed away that I’d like to be able to put my hands on, but won’t be able to until I’m out of Retirement Limbo Land. It leaves me unhappy and frustrated. And annoyingly out of control.

I have similar feelings about finding alternate ways to spend my time. I’ll probably get involved in some volunteer work when we settle into our new, downsized location. I’m disinclined to do it now. Why invest emotionally in something I’ll be leaving soon? Not to mention our one-car situation. If I take the car so I can volunteer for a few hours, that leaves the rest of the day to get into trouble. By that I mean go shopping. Again, the goal is to downsize. And the budget doesn’t allow shopping.

Except for wine, but I can walk to my favorite wine store. That has added benefits. I get some exercise, and I don’t buy more than two or three bottles at a time, so they’re not too heavy to carry home. Of course, if one has a screw top, I could always drink some of it on the way, to lighten the load. Just kidding. Then again…

Retirement Plagues — Sneezing Fits, Bug Bites and Bruises

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Lately I’m prone to a rash of plagues, or a plague of rashes, or both. They’ve come upon me like carpenter ants on a vine-covered porch since I’ve been retired.

Every year around this time, I get little bug bites that itch like crazy. They start at my ankles and work their way up my body over a few weeks. Places on my lower back that are hard to reach are a favorite snacking area for these critters. Also the wing flaps of my upper arms. For immediate relief, I scrub my skin to within an inch of its life with the back brush in the shower.

I also treat with my father’s go-to ointment—Boroleum. It’s an analgesic with menthol and eucalyptol. It was developed for nasal use, but it’s versatile. Remember the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who used Windex on everything, including zits? Well, that’s me with my Boroleum, thanks to my father. It’s amazingly soothing, but only for awhile. No matter what I do, until the nibbling season is over, I’m doomed to a life of itch and scratch.

This is also the season for sneezing fits. Those with severe allergies are thinking: “Big whoop. The whole year is that season for me.” I understand the need to sneeze when I’m exposed to pollen. But my office is in the basement. In a windowless area. The fits I get there at this time of year go on and on.

The first sneeze, I just ignore. The second sneeze gets me looking around for the tissue box, just in case. By the third sneeze, I’m trying to sniff the drips back up there. Sneeze four gets me pressing my knees together. Sneeze five has me blowing my nose (still pressing my knees together). And blowing. And blowing. By the time sneeze six comes around, and it usually does, I’m running up the stairs to the bathroom.

Maybe my office gets dustier in Spring. It doesn’t seem that way to me. True, I drag the porch furniture out of the basement around the same time, and that stirs things up. But they’re in a different room and they go out the bulkhead. Even Luke is sneezing more now, and he hasn’t been o-u-t in weeks. Whatever the reason, sneeze fests are just another plague of the season for us.

My recent checkup with my GP reminded me of yet another side effect of an aging body: I bruise much more easily now. I guess my skin is thinner, so the blood vessels are closer to the surface. You know those little suction cup electrodes the tech sticks onto you when she does your annual EKG? Now they leave red marks. They usually disappear within a few hours, but it’s a different story for the other bruises that I get without having a clue why.

The other day I found a small discoloration on my left forearm. I’m sure it started as a typical black and blue mark. By the time I noticed it, the color had already moved on to the green phase. Now it’s that ugly yellow that signals the end of the cycle. I find bruises on my hips and thighs all the time, and I rarely can remember bumping into anything. Or more correctly, into anything in particular.

I bump into things all the time. My depth perception has always been lousy. Now that my eyesight is also less than stellar, unintentional contact with my surroundings happens several times a day, leaving me muttering: “Ouch! That’s going to leave a mark.” The more I walk around the house, the more bruises I get, and at least half of the ones I notice have origins unknown.

This provides a suitable excuse for just staying put in a chair with a good book. And a nice glass of wine. And no, it’s not the wine that makes me clumsy, so you can wipe that smirk off your face. What’s even better—by the second glass, I don’t notice the bug bites anymore. Ah, Spring! When ones thoughts turn to restocking the “medicine cabinet” with Boroleum and tissues. And wine, of course.