“There’s a place, where the boat leaves from

It takes away all of your big problems

You got worries, you can drop them in the blue ocean

But you gotta get away to where the boat leaves from”… Zac Brown Band

Ernie and I were cruising down the Overseas Highway on our way to Key West from Miami. The beautiful May sun was shining a warm, golden yellow. The skies were cerulean blue, with some wispy clouds sitting softly in the sky, as if put there by the delicate touch of a painter. The sea was a spectacular aquamarine that reminded me of the Caribbean.

“Ah. Life is good today,” I thought.

Have you seen or heard about the latest food trend? Girl Dinner? Apparently, it’s on fire on TikTok. I don’t have or know how to use TikTok, so I heard about it the old-fashioned way: through my newsfeed.

It’s described as something the opposite of a guy dinner, ie, protein, starch and vegetable. You know, something we used to just call dinner. Not sure when the genderization of mealtime took place.

Last week we took a brief look at the aging process, prompted by a recently published study which tried to pinpoint an age, a single, magical point in time, at which people no longer feel young.

This week, let’s pick up that thread and explore further what aging is really like, shall we?

We’ve already established that it is more of a process that starts out slowly, creeping up on you subtly, by degrees, like a patch of crabgrass that slowly but surely subsumes your beautiful garden if left unattended. But, whereas that crabgrass can be eliminated, no magic elixir has yet to be developed to halt the aging process, despite what you see in your social media feeds.

Hyaluronic acid and Botox only get you so far.

…that the average age when people stop feeling young is 43. And that the average age when they start feeling old is 52. Not sure what they are feeling in those intervening 9 years, lol.

This little gem of a study popped up in my newsfeed this week. Have you seen it?

Say what you will about Millenials, but hats off to them with figuring out how to have your cake and eat it too. Or rather, how to have your beer and drink it too, I should say.

Been to a brewery lately? Notice how it’s overrun with parents with young children? I look at them with a weird combination of kudos, envy, and horror.

“Start the car, John, start the car!!,” my friend Lou Ann yelled frantically, as we stumbled out of the wooded area of the dunes. Well, she walked. I stumbled, prostrated with heat. The car, with its blessed air conditioning would be my salvation.

For most people, the term ‘asleep at the wheel’ is a figure of speech. For me? A literal occurrence. And the literal occurrence led to a date night with a sleep lab. I would have much preferred a date night with George Clooney, but that wasn’t an option.

Let’s talk chicken. Roast Chicken to be specific. Sam’s Club Roast Chicken to be even more specific. The mecca of all Roast Chickens. The cult-like fanaticism of its customers who worship at the roasted altar. A visit to that altar is not for the faint of heart. You have to be prepared for exchanges that might happen, for the rules and protocols of which must be adhered.

I am loathe to admit it, but I think I am turning into my parents. It’s kind of like the Progressive commercials with Dr. Rick. Only instead of Millenials turning into their parents, it’s Boomers.

The signs are subtle at first. You catch yourself saying to your family and friends, “What’s that you said? Speak up, you are mumbling!” You find yourself turning up the volume on the TV. Worse, you put the subtitles on now because you find that even if you can hear, you can’t understand what they are saying and you struggle to keep up with the dialog. And any interaction with technology is sure to pose at least one challenge.

Picture this. You’ve just moved to Upstate NY. Saratoga Springs, to be exact. A place where the winters are real. And long. Real long. So, you decide to become outdoor winter activity people and the first activity you take up is skiing.

This was our reality many moons ago when we were young and our prefrontal cortexes, which control judgement, were still developing.

We had previously enjoyed the occasional ski trip. In fact, we had recently skied Mount Killington in Vermont and aside from all the muscle soreness after the fact, had had a really good time.

We decided to fully embrace this skiing thing. We went out and bought all the necessary equipment. No more rentals for us!

You know how sometimes when you go to the doctor you get the question, do you feel safe at home? The harsh reality is that I’d have to answer that as a no. I live with a stalker you see.

There I am, comfortably ensconced on a stool at my kitchen counter, sipping my tea, wordling, when suddenly, out of nowhere, there he is. Sitting there. Those big green eyes staring at me, boring holes through me, unblinking. He shifts ever so slightly. I nervously bring my gaze back to my wordling, but I feel him staring. I look over at him again. He’s moved closer. I scooch myself away from him a bit. Then it happens. Not satisfied with just the stalking he decides to go for blood. I’m paying attention though, so I am able to dodge him just in time.

Ginger was our rescue Lab and Golden Retriever mix. Sweetest dog you’d ever want to meet, but boundless energy that running her 3 miles a day would not even come close to expending.

We had a dog whisperer come to the house once, because bringing Ginger home seemed to be causing issues with Sandy, our Golden Retriever, also the sweetest dog you’d ever want to meet. The dog whisperer asked how much exercise they were getting and when I said I ran with them 3 miles a day every day he pointed to Ginger and said, “She needs at least double that.”

You. Singular? Plural? The fact is, you can’t tell. Because our English language in its infinite perverseness, has deemed using the same word, you, for both singular and plural. What the heck? English couldn’t follow the lead of other countries, like Spain where the difference is clear? Usted. Ustedes. Singular. Plural.

However, Spain and other countries do have this thing for formal and informal use of the word you which just confounds things in a different way altogether. English stayed away from that situation at least.

Back to our conundrum of how to differentiate in our English language when we mean you singular and you plural.

Last week’s blog post, First Jobs: Part 1, found us in the hinterlands of South Jersey being chased by a nasty Billy Goat. This week’s post, First Jobs: Part 2, finds us in an appliance store in Newark, DE and does not involve farm animals of any sort.

I arrived at the huge, super-center appliance store in Newark, DE. The quantity of inventory was so large, that the store assigned one of their salesmen to assist me. I had allotted the full day for the task.

First jobs can be awful. I’m not talking about the first jobs we all had as teenagers (baby sitter, newspaper deliverer, retail clerk, and “would you like fries with that?”).

I’m talking about the newly minted college grad, first “real” job. There you are, degree in hand and standing on the precipice of official adulthood. So much excitement, but so much pressure also. You are anxious to land that first job for a variety of reasons. To become independent. To pay off your student loans. To really just take your place in the world and make your mark.

What that means is, a lot of the times you will just take whatever job, just to have a job and get started. At least that was the case for me.

I don’t know about you, but my newsfeed gets inundated with articles on health and wellness. Things like, “Even moderate alcohol consumption is not good for you”, “Cholesterol culprits”, “Salt the silent killer”, “Eggs are bad for you, no wait, eggs are good for you”, “Butter is bad for you, no wait, butter is good for you”.

My head is spinning and I am thoroughly confused about what I should or should not consume, and more to the point, at what amounts I should consume or not consume.

Being shy of 60 by about two months now, I was feeling like I was looking pretty good ‘for my age’. All that oily skin in my teen years, thank you Italian heritage, finally paying off by keeping the wrinkles at bay. My 11’s seemed barely visible (proving that SJP and And Just Like That is not just entertaining but also educational). There were a few slight crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes, and minimal laugh lines. My neck was another story though, with quite visible wrinkles and sagging skin. But hey. That’s what scarves and turtlenecks are for.

Gotta love when your job takes you to Europe and you have the chance to extend your business trip into a few extra personal vacation days. This happened some years ago when I was in Brussels for work. Ernie joined me there. We decided to do a day trip to Amsterdam. Neither of us had ever been there before. But we bought a Rick Steves guidebook, read up about it, and put together an itinerary for the day.

Boundaries. Have you heard of these? Being someone who grew up in the ‘60’s/’70’s in an Italian-American family, I can tell you that they are new to me. We were 5 kids plus our parents living in a three bedroom, one and a half bath house in an era way before there was any awareness, understanding or appreciation of anything remotely resembling boundaries. There were none. Except for the imaginary one my older sister made in the double bed we shared. Using her hand to demarcate a line down what she thought was the middle of the bed but was more like three quarters of the bed (her side) and commanding me not to cross that line, not even so much as a pinky toe.

The headache lurked around the edges of my brain. It was soft, not so pronounced. In fact, one could almost question whether it was really there. I was in that half sleep/half awake state, where sleep seductively tried to keep me in it’s embrace, but wakefulness poked at me, prodded me, tried to pull me away from slumber’s grasp. Wakefulness had the headache to its advantage. It made me wonder what the cause of it was. And with that thought process begun, wakefulness was on its way in and sleep on its way out.