Whadda you mean I’m not 58? I feel like I’m 58.

Yeah, about that. You’re just another baby boomer who thinks that they will live forever. But have you noticed that you are forgetting things more often? That thing where you go into another room but can’t remember why –– is that happening more often? Do you need the TV volume up higher than –– ahem –– some other people in the room? Is figuring out how to do stuff on your computer getting more and more difficult (i.e. requiring the services of random teenagers in order to figure out how to back up your old iTunes –– I know, Apple killed it and they call it Music now. How creative.). Do your knees feel sore after a long walk or a hike? Do I need to continue listing these things or are you getting the message?

You –– we –– are in denial. And the older we get, the more denial we exhibit. I’m not particularly worried about it. It’s normal as we age. I’m more worried about where it stops. This is why children take away the parent’s car keys. I don’t have any children. Does that mean people I don’t even know are going to tell me I should not be driving anymore? I know this day is far off (or is that just more denial?), but it’s never too early to start worrying about it.

Baby boomers just don’t think of themselves as “older adults.” And honestly, why should they? The definition of older adult has been “updefined.” The President is 78. The Speaker of the House is 79. Bernie Sanders is 79 and he’s a famous meme for crying out loud!

Of course, we are not the first generation of oldsters to face this problem. The difference is that we are baby boomers, and I don’t have to tell you, boomers have this group-think tendency to believe we are different than past generations. Not necessarily better, but different. Our culture has contributed to this effect as well. We are living longer and healthier lives. There are more medical and psychological means of deferring events that used to define old age.

So. What to do? Keeping paddling in the Nile? That’s where you will find me. Until or unless someone takes away my paddle.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Like other widely obscure writers, I leave scraps–morsels of scribbled thought—everywhere. Most of these droppings end up as trash, or they were garbage to begin with. This habit is never a total waste. Some bits can lead home to a better idea later and might find their way into a song or poem or story. I try to find a purpose for what oozes from my pen. There was a time when my only rationale was “to communicate.”

When I was younger, I would write short poems or notes and leave them hidden somewhere whenever I left a dorm or some rented apartment. This notion—a message to anyone or no one—may have emerged from a romantic view that the world of strangers needed my input. Or maybe it was just some naive belief that I had something to say that was so important that feedback was not necessary.

This practice might have come from an old Ernest Hemingway anecdote I once read about. As a wartime journalist, Hemingway and his mates had come across an enemy shack. Food, supplies, and bottles of wine were left in the hideout, an obvious sign that the enemy was nearby and could be back soon. Not wanting to wait around to engage them, Hemingway uncorked a few wine bottles and happily quenched his thirst. He then urinated into the bottles, topping them up before re-corking them. The bottles of wine would have appeared undisturbed, when they had been disturbed in the worst possible way. The great writer could only imagine the scene of thirsty fascists and their first–and last–swigs. Even when I read the story years ago, the whole episode didn’t sound at all literary, but it seemed very “Hemingway.”

We’re seldom in the room when somebody uncorks our writing. Sometimes we don’t care about such matters when we should. As for my own bits and pieces, I remember where most of my anonymous musings were lodged. I sometimes picture strangers as they unearth these fragments. In my writer’s mind, such scraps emit a glow like some comic book treasure. But there are other pieces I don’t think about–like a poem I wrote on 9-11. Promptly thrown into the sea, I can’t recall even one word of it.

Sometimes we write just because.

Michael Riordan, a retired university professor, has published poetry, short stories and feature articles. He won first prize for nonfiction in spring 2020 ‘ageless authors’ writing contest. his piece, “when our hearts become the sky” can be found at Pleaseseeme.com.

In my About Me profile, I wrote:

I like to play golf, walk, swim, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis.

And you know, that pretty much sums it up. I never imagined I’d arrive at this place, but I might be devoid of ambition. Although I was fairly successful in my career, success comes with baggage I no longer wish to carry. That could all change, but during this phase of my retirement, it’s rather pleasant to dabble in what amuses me and be free of expectations and judgment.

While I may be voted the girl least likely to do anything memorable, I’m enjoying simple pleasures that escaped me as I scrambled up the ladder at work. For example, I’ve been playing golf for about 25 years, and I’ve never enjoyed it more than I do now.

For years, I felt every swing was being judged. Every mistake was a failure of catastrophic proportions. Now I just play to play, and I am a much better golfer without all that self-induced pressure. Playing partners frequently ask me if I compete in amateur events, and my response is no, I’m not wired for it.

I’ve also learned to accept imperfection through my woodburning activities. At first, I wanted to hoard my art because that was easier than waiting for someone to say, “I like it.” I started giving it away, and it has been quite liberating. In some cases, I will never know if someone liked it. I only know what was in my heart when I created it and shared it. Somehow, that’s enough.

As for my other hobbies, some are going quite well and others leave something to be desired. Between the virus and Trump’s antics, it’s hard for me to sit still long enough to read. I have a book I’ve renewed two times, and I’m committed to reading it before the next expiration date.

We celebrated 42 years of marriage on the winter solstice. I made tacos.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

 

 

Maybe it’s the anxiety of waiting for a vaccination or just the general angst of waiting out a pandemic, but either way, I’m ready to try some Sominex (doubtful they still make it). If you’re old enough, you might remember their jingle. “Take Sominex tonight and sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.” That little ditty is still effective. You almost want to lay your head down and take a nap after listening to it.

The more serious issue is what baby boomers may be doing to themselves to get some quality sleep. There are warnings that alcohol consumption is way up and it stands to reason that various sleep aids such as ZzzQuil, Luna and Nytol are experiencing a big bump in sales. Likewise, CBD products are getting very popular for the supposed benefit of reduced anxiety.

I suppose you’ve heard that we should be getting 7 hours of sleep a night. Who was getting 7 hours even before the pandemic? Six is good, hell, I would take 5. The creepy aspect of this sleep deprivation is that we really don’t know how much sleep we’re getting. Looking at the clock over and over throughout the night does not prove that you were not sleeping in between time checks. How many times have you heard yourself say, “I didn’t sleep at all last night.” If it were really true, you would be in a zombie apocalypse movie by now.

Is this sleep deprivation issue really about the pandemic or is it a natural consequence of getting older? The National Sleep Foundation found that 35 percent of Americans report their sleep quality as poor or fair. Boomers spend less time in deeper stages of sleep and our circadian rhythms change, causing us to go to sleep earlier and wake up earlier. Their advice is to shoot for the same bedtime and wake-up. No TV or electronic devices (that’s going to be tough); no eating within 3 hours of bedtime; no caffeine after 3 p.m.; and don’t stay in bed if you are not sleeping.

All this talk about sleep is making me drowsy. Oh yeah, they also recommend naps be limited to 20-30 minutes. See you in my dreams.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

We Aren’t the World. We’re Just Renting the Place.

Coca-Cola’s 1985 smash, worldwide classic, “We Are the World,” was a brilliant, emotional call to action to help solve the world’s connected problems, starting with aid to impoverished people “barely living” in Africa.

But viewed in the lens of climate change, it incorrectly promotes our human-centered planet because, “We aren’t the world.” We share it with every living plant and animal.

As Kristy Lynn points out in her New York Times article, Earth Is Not Just a Human Playground, we affect the world and our actions have consequences, none so dire as the existential threat of climate change.

We act as if the world were here only for humans and not that we live in an interconnected world where every living thing depends on everything else.

If you’ve ever been stung by a bee, this momentary intrusion of nature into our lives is an annoyance and painful.

“Damn bees. I’d like to kill that bee, and the rest of the bees on the planet.”

Yet, a third of the world’s production of food depends on bees and other pollinators.

As Lynn points out, “If Earth were only for humans, why would it be constructed that humans rely on other parts of nature to survive?”

The earth, our home, isn’t just about us, it’s about all of us—every living thing on the planet.

So, every little thing you do to reverse climate change, even the smallest actions, like turning off a light, taking a shorter shower, or buying second-hand clothes to support sustainability, has an effect on everything else.

At least, that’s what the bee told me, shortly before he immersed his stinger in my left arm.

Jack Goldenberg is way more than a proficient copywriter. He is also the creative director at Einstein da Vinci & Goldenberg and you can get in touch with his inner adman at 10 Minutes of Brilliance.

I had my annual physical the other day…Oops, you’re supposed to call it chronic review or Medicare won’t cover it. So, during my ‘chronic review’, when the doctor looked at my bruised bicep, he paused and asked, “What the hell happened to your arm? Did you fall or something?”

I started to explain, but then realized what it might sound like. If he thought I was the victim of spouse abuse, he might feel compelled to report my wife. “Yeah,” I mumbled, “stumbled into the wall a couple nights ago.”

Here’s the backstory. It all started three months ago when I went to get an eye exam…they make you do that if you want to replace scratched lenses, even if you don’t think your prescription has changed. Huh! The sweet young thing did the usual: ‘Which is better? One? or Two?” Then bending over her hand-held tablet, crunching numbers and bringing up screens, she muttered through her Covid mask. “You have dry eyes.” Mutter…mutter.

Never used to have that problem. I teared up regularly for the usual occasions—funerals, birth of my kids, banging my thumb with a hammer, even laughing too hard. And while I never bought into the ‘men don’t cry’ myth, I do reserve judgement as to when to let tears fall. But these days, the optometrist was right. I don’t tear up as much or as easily. Maybe I’ve seen too much. Become cynical and hard boiled. A crusty old man. The only surefire way to bring tears to my eyes is to dice an onion or go for a long drive with my wife.

Let me explain. It’s when I’m on a long drive that I really notice the change in my vision. Sometimes, I can hardly make out freeway signs until I’m practically on them. I’ve learned it’s all about the ‘tear film’ I’m lacking that keeps vision sharp. Tear drops fix that. But who can stop every half-hour to put drops in your eyes? We’d never get anywhere between stopping for bathroom breaks and lunch and gas…aargh.

So, back to the chronic exam, what I couldn’t tell the doctor was, whenever I noticed highway signs blurring, I’d ask my wife to pinch my arm…hard. And after a couple hundred miles, it really brought tears to my eyes. Mission accomplished. But would he understand?

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/