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I’m certain every single child in my neighborhood has an e-bike or a scooter, and their parents said to ride on the sidewalk because it’s safer. Safer for them. The rest of us walk in fear. Zip, zip. Coming from behind. A muttered on your left, and that’s if they are feeling generous.

The whole thing makes me mad. I mentioned this to a friend, who said the e-bikes will be the end of our mobility. We, the sad old people who walk. They are coming for us. She said this is not our world anymore, and boy, truer words were never spoken.

If there was ever a reason to move to a 55 and older community, this is it. Except I’m betting the grandkids show up there to ride and nona and papa are pleased as punch.

I need a new game plan. I was planning to walk yesterday, but by the time I was ready, school was letting out. Gangs of them are released into the streets unsupervised. Hooligans. Officially, I’m not telling them to get off my lawn, but I do want them off my sidewalks.

But then I remember what my friend said. It’s not our world. Not my sidewalk. Get used to it.

While I’m at it, I may as well address the dog people. The law where I live is fuzzy on e-bikes and scooters, but there is a county-wide leash law people like to ignore.

One guy was jogging past me with his dog off-leash, and I said, “Please put the dog on a leash!” He turned around and said, “What are you gonna do? Call the police?”

I said no, I’m asking nicely, but that was my outside voice. I wanted to say, “No, because I am the fucking police!” Wouldn’t that be fun? Whip out a baton or something and take him down.

But I did not say that. Because I am reasonably civilized, and you know, of course, I am not with the police and don’t have the upper body strength to wield a baton with any force. And even with my extremely buff walker body, I’m clearly an old lady, and they don’t hire old ladies to keep assholes in line.

It has been a weird few weeks. I feel unsettled, but in some ways, I’m holding it together better than I did earlier in the year when Dale and I were down for the count. We are both improving. It is a slow slog.

Dale is not technically a hoarder, but there are signs. For 30-plus years we subscribed to The Washington Post. Hard copies in the mail. But we canceled after Jeff Bezos started stinking it up. We switched to the New York Times, which is delivered daily.

Even though we canceled, there was time left on the subscription, so the Post continued to arrive. By then, Dale was reading the Times. I said fine, let them pile up, but I draw the line at newspaper tunnels. It was a close run thing. The old Posts finally made it to the recycling bin last week, and I’m calling that a win.

Because I am not a hoarder at heart, I like to get rid of things. I purged some old clothes and decided to get rid of my cowboy boots. I bought them when we lived in Texas, but that time is gone. They are high-end boots, so I thought I would consign them. Just because I was making the trip over there anyway, I considered consigning some of my Egyptian jewelry.

But then I thought, well, they aren’t going to know anything about the value of Egyptian jewelry, so I’d better do some research. I remember buying it at a small gallery outside Cairo around 1990, and I knew the silversmith was a woman.  

It appears that woman, Azza Fahmy, went on to become very famous and now runs some sort of international jewelry empire. If authenticated, my pieces are from her early works before she made it big, and they are quite collectible. Not necessarily worth a ton of money, but some of her jewelry is in The British Museum.

Short story. I’m keeping it. The boots went to consignment.

Since I decided to keep the jewelry, I thought I’d make more of an effort to wear it. So, I got out the polishing cloth and shined it up. Being old and all that, I guess I didn’t know this was a high-risk activity, and the next day I woke up with a sprained pinky. I was not expecting a jewelry polishing injury, but there you have it. Aging is not for sissies.

I got into research mode and decided to dig a little into my father’s history. We know he dropped out of school in Cleveland in 1930. And that he registered for the draft in Palm Springs, Ca. in 1940. He was drafted in 1941, and we can pretty much piece together his life after that, but there’s a roughly 10-year period where we really aren’t sure what he was up to.

He said he left home after dropping out of school to ride the rails during the Great Depression. I believe that part, but we don’t know what he did all that time. He liked to tell stories!  I found the census record for 1940, and it turns out he was a pinsetter at the Palm Springs Bowling Academy. He would have been about 26. He used to tell us he ran a bowling alley in Palm Springs, but I think that was a bit of an embellishment.

I have his WW2 diary and spent some time exploring that. As best as I can tell, he was in the hospital in France when his unit was sent out to fight in what would become known as the Battle of the Bulge. I mean, wow, close call.

I’m kind of done with exploring that for now. It was interesting and way better than doomscrolling.

Oh, just because we haven’t had enough activity at our house this year, somehow maggots did whatever they do for sport, and our kitchen filled up with big black houseflies. We must have killed 100 of them over several days. After much deliberation, I believe the source was my sourdough discard going down the drain and getting stuck in there and becoming a tasty snack for a hungry fly.

I found empty casings or whatever it is those bastards leave behind under the trash bin and had to clean and disinfect all that.

To sanitize the garbage disposal, I took an old toothbrush and scrubbed the underside of the black flaps. Gross. I did a baking soda/vinegar mix and let that bubble up. Then I washed all that down with some Dawn dishwashing liquid and boiling water. Then I ground up ice and Kosher salt to pick up any remnants. And then another gullywasher of hot water.

It’s a pain in the ass, but I have a new process for disposing of sourdough discard. I put it all in a Ziplock and wipe down the container and any utensils with paper towels, which also go in the Ziplock. Then that sits in the freezer until full, and then into the outside trash.

No more fucking flies in this house.

Dale and I were at the Walgreens pharmacy and saw this sign over the counter that said, “SELECT NARCOTICS IN TIME DELAY SAFE.”

We were waiting for a prescription, and Dale whispered to me, “Do you think now would be a good time to select our narcotics?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. Then Dale couldn’t stop laughing. Seriously, I thought someone was going to come out and tell us to quiet down and quit having so much fun. I used to tease Dale about his loud, crazy old guy laugh, but I don’t anymore. I would pay extra for it.

If we’re supposed to be dignified, we blew our cover, but the whole idea of cultivating an image is dead to me. I cared a lot about how I presented myself to the world when I was working, because honestly, image was the name of the game.

By the time I got to the higher ranks, I concluded they don’t care so much about what you can do but whether they want you in their club. They want to see you’re willing to conform. Do you look like them? Talk like them? Or do you dress wrong? Is your laugh too loud?

Those things mattered to me then because they directly impacted my livelihood, and for me, work was about money not passion. Although I never quite mastered the art of fitting in, I tried to look and act the part and got close enough.

But man, always being judged. It was exhausting. The great bonus of retirement is that nobody is paying me to perform for the king. I am whoever shows up that day.

Maybe I actually am gaining some wisdom as I age, but it has occurred to me that judging others is just as exhausting as being judged. I’m tired of expecting other people to be who I want them to be.

This includes difficult relatives, but it does not apply to evil people and politicians or evil politicians.  

I’m kind of old school about aging. I don’t need new words to describe what is happening to me. Ever the practical one, I’m like, let’s just do this thing.

It turns out being old is not fashionable. Now there are younger adjectives to help us along. Conscious, healthy, active, successful, positive, mindful. It’s a cornucopia of delusions.

Sure, I get it. If you’re going to age, you definitely want to be conscious, and I’m all for that. I experimented with being unconscious once in the 70s, and it didn’t work out well. As for positive aging, they are against the idea that we are too old for anything, but they are wrong.

Why can’t we be more like cheese? OK, so it dries up a little, but cheese makes up for it by developing a deeper complexity over time. Cheese is an inspiration when it comes to wrinkles and rinds. You don’t see a nice elderly Camembert at the spa lining up for injectables.

All that to say Dale and I are still here, raging against the machine. As you may recall, he broke his pelvis, I fractured my arm and he tore his ACL. Dale is improving but very slowly. I’m doing quite well. My arm and shoulder still hurt, but I can lift heavy stuff and do most things and can sleep on that side now, and that was a game-changer.

I didn’t want to go back to the physical therapy practice that messed up Dale’s knee, not just out of solidarity, but I didn’t like how they responded to my feedback. But then I went to a new PT and ran into another feedback problem, so I’m thinking it might be me.

It’s that damn outside voice!

After a couple of visits, I said my arm still hurt, but I didn’t necessarily blame the exercises because, after all, I was playing golf, and maybe my body was still adjusting. She said you need to accept you can no longer play golf with a competitive mindset. Be less focused on performance and treat it like a nice day out or a walk in the park.

To my credit, I did not respond in real time. My face probably said it all. At the end of the visit, she said she wanted to apologize for being judgmental about golf. I responded, and these are my exact words, “It doesn’t matter because I didn’t ask, and it’s not negotiable.”

Another one bites the dust. I never went back, but I am religiously doing the exercises the first guy gave me and know how to build on that foundation as I continue to gain strength. I am committed to getting strong and living my life with vigor, grit and resilience.

I like to call it a competitive mindset.

There are things you just don’t know when you are raised by wolves.

While I’m mostly pretty good at dealing with people, it does not come naturally. My parents were barely domesticated, and it took everything I had just to fit in. Dad drank. Mom popped pills and slept through my childhood. They both had crappy low-paying jobs they hated. He was angry, and she was depressed. My sister and I were left to fend for ourselves.

Joining the Army at 18 was the beginning of a life I never imagined. I eventually became an executive communications advisor for a Fortune 100 company, but I always felt like I was making up the rules as I went. I listened, watched, copied and learned. It’s not that I wanted to be somebody else, but I wanted to be somebody. I thought I had it all figured out until the consultant arrived.

One of her first interventions was about conflict. There were about a dozen of us, and we sullenly gathered in a poorly lit conference room with a big oval fake wood table smack in the middle. She started at one end and asked everyone to take turns sharing how we dealt with conflict in our families when we were growing up.

Two hands found each other under the table, and we held on tight. Next to me was my friend and confidante, who also knew a thing or two about wolves. She was a secretary, and I was a senior manager. We had both lived with crazy, and we knew what crazy looked like.

One careful observation at a time, one quiet comment as I stood by her desk waiting for the boss to call me in, one look from her when the workplace madness was in full form, and I  knew. And she knew I knew. That’s how we learned to trust each other.

But here we were, in the big room with the consultant. At least we were on the tail end of the circle, so we had time to figure this out. She squeezed, I squeezed back.

The consultant asked, “How did you handle conflict in your family?” Someone said they discussed it like civilized adults over cocktails out by the pool.

Still holding hands, I thought about my friend, who didn’t even refer to her father as her father. First name only. I had my own father baggage, but I never called him Bill. I remember the fear of being exposed, the fear that we would have to reveal our dysfunctional childhoods after making it this far.

I don’t even remember what either one of us finally said. I only remember holding my friend’s hand as the consultant went around the table, one by one, person by person, inching closer and closer to us.

Throughout my career, I was never the smartest girl in the room, and I certainly wasn’t the savviest. There are things you just don’t know when you are raised by wolves. But one thing about the wolves – you learn to figure things out on your own. That’s how I became exceedingly competent, and I eventually got paid exceedingly well to solve other people’s problems.

But that was then, and this is now. Retired. No one is paying me to solve their problems, and I sort of miss it. When it came to my job, I had education and experience, and I knew what to do. After a couple of decades, you have authority. People listen and follow your lead.

It doesn’t quite work that way at home. For 47 years in a row, I have failed to convince my husband, Dale, that he reports to me. He is cocky and resistant to feedback. He might agree today but then change his mind tomorrow. That’s fine. Really, it is. He wasn’t my dream employee, anyway.

But he is my dream partner, so I have to let all that slide. That has never been easy, but it was a lot easier until I turned 70 and the shit hit the fan. One day everything was good. The next day Dale fell off a ladder, and nothing has been the same since. He tore his ACL while recovering from a fractured pelvis. I broke my arm.

Now, I have problems I was not prepared for. I made it through my recovery OK, but he is still struggling to walk. Dale is smart in Mr. Wizard ways, but I’m the fixer, so it falls on me. What kind of mobility aids does he need? How do I sanitize a bedside urinal? That was not on the final exam.

And after all this time with Dale being less than fully able, it seems I am the project manager for our household. I’m calling contractors about things I absolutely positively do not understand. I spent hours studying the irrigation manual just so I could ask good questions.

At first, I just wished my husband would do what I told him to do. But now I have no faith that I’m right. In fact, sometimes I am confidently wrong. What do I know about all this stuff? We now have three walkers and two scooters because I have no idea what I am doing.

We are improving, but there’s no quick fix. For years, I let him do things I wanted no part of, and he deferred his unwanted tasks to me. I think they call that learned dependence.

A small win was when we disagreed on what to do about an electric problem. Neither one of us is particularly handy. I know zero about electricity, and he knows just enough to be dangerous.

After much deliberation, we agreed we needed an electrician, but he didn’t want to make the call. He hates that part. I finally found someone and got an appointment, so I made a deal with Dale. You can be the guy who deals with the electrician in person and whatever you two decide is fine with me. I’ve done my part. He was like, yeah, that sounds good.

I think he meant it. Maybe figuring out what each of us can stand doing is its own kind of competence.

All is well here, but I wanted to let you know I’ve decided to take a sabbatical from the blog and just let it rest awhile unattended. I turned the comments off so you get a break, too!

Dale and I have been through some stuff in our 47 years of marriage, and I will just go out on a limb here and say breaking bones within weeks of each other and then trying to recover at home together is by far the hardest thing we have ever done.

We have different reactions to pain. Different expectations for comfort. Different ideas about what progress looks like. Different ideas about safety and risk. One of us is on team normal, and Dale is clinically insane.

Just kidding. No lie, though, it has been tough, but I believe we have turned a corner and will soon be back to our jolly selves. I had something like PTSD, and every little noise, every little thud came to haunt me. Was that just the icemaker or did Dale just fall down and die?

The chat bot helped me come up with a mantra.

“I am not the safety officer in this household. I am present, grounded and at ease.”

That helped me a lot, and I’m not nearly as fearful as I was. I saw the house as one giant booby trap waiting to kill one or both of us, and I had to let that go. I’m cautious now but not neurotic, although Dale might take issue with that assessment.

We’re slowly approaching normal or what passes for it. Dale navigates freely about the house without a walker, going up and down the stairs as needed. He uses the walker outside sometimes but not all the time. At first I tried to intervene in that but quickly realized it is his call to make.

He is sleeping upstairs again. That was another one I just had to back away from. I moved to the guest room because of the pillow fort I’ve created to support my arm. I imagined him getting up in the middle of the night to pee and taking a tumble, so I closed my door. At least I wouldn’t hear it.

We haven’t gotten rid of the adjustable bed downstairs yet because there is still a remote chance I will need surgery, and that bed might come in handy. I was so proud of myself for getting that all set up for Dale, but now I hate it. That was the cord that tried to kill me.

We’re back to showers upstairs, but we now have grab bars and a no-slip matt. We stashed the shower seat and other medical equipment out in the garage until we decide whether to keep it, donate it or whatever.

I’ve got a couple more weeks before I see the ortho again. The worst of the pain is gone, and I’m pretty comfortable most of the time. My mood has improved significantly. I don’t expect I will require surgery and am visualizing that outcome.

I’m also visualizing myself at 80, healthy, active and strong, recalling that year I broke my arm. Was it 10 years ago already? I mean, it was awful, but now it’s just a blur. Glad it didn’t stop me!