One of my first columns was about finding a yoga class for someone of my age and auto accident decrepitude. There’s practically a yoga studio on every corner in downtown La Jolla so one wouldn’t think this was such a problem, especially when one factors in the large demographic of locals who are, well, old. But La Jolla is nothing if not a competitive community and I have flunked out of more yoga classes than you can count.
By my calculations, I spend a third of my time sleeping, a third enjoying retirement, and most of the rest on hold waiting for the next available agent. I don’t think anyone would argue that automated phone systems are the Techno-Ebola of our time. But I wouldn’t even mind that much if at the end of it was a Knowledgeable Human Being.
I always think of January as The Attack of the Skinny People, the folks who were posing for their cover shots on every major women’s magazine while the rest of us were scarfing down pumpkin pie, Christmas cookies and potato latkes. Their results are to be commended, of course, but let me just say that you can save yourself the trouble of buying these post-holiday magazines because despite the glowing write-ups and the before-and-after photos, their success can all be summed in two words: Eat less.
Over the holidays, it is always our hope to have the company of our four preschool grandchildren. And after they leave, it is always our hope to someday get all of our electronics working again.
I think I can sum up my husband, Olof’s, and my different styles by the funeral instructions our estate attorney had us write when he set up our trusts. Mine went on for three pages. Olof’s were all of six words: “I don’t care. I’ll be dead.”
Winston, our beloved but massively high maintenance grand dog, is back in residence again for one of his prolonged visits to Camp Grammy and Grampy. My younger son, Henri, and his wife, Erica (Winston’s owners) and my husband, Olof, and I are all besotted with Winston. But we are especially besotted with him when he’s at the other party’s house.
The older we get, the harder it is for me to get Olof to medical appointments.
Olof maintains this is because at our age, there’s just no good news to be had.
Do they ever say, “Wow, you look so much younger!” he queries? Or, “You really should be drinking more Scotch?”
At the San Diego Press Club Journalism Awards in 2010, the first year that my column in the Light was eligible, I won second place in the Humor division after Laura Walcher, who writes for the Presidio Sentinel. Sensing (correctly) that she would continue to be my chief competition, I hunted her down, er, looked her up, and invited her for coffee. Annoyingly, she was incredibly nice, and as she had been in the column biz a lot longer than I had, even shared some hot tips.
Sixty-five years ago, an obviously inebriated architect chose to ignore the collective 19,000 square feet of our two lots and build two houses a mere 10 feet from each other. Worse, the houses are oriented so that rather than being parallel, our houses face right into each other. I’m trying to even imagine how any of this worked before 1955 when a six foot fence and a Japanese privet hedge were installed that created at least the illusion of any privacy.
Before my engineer husband tries to explain anything technical to me, he says, “I think you might want to get the yellow pad.”
He, of course, means an 8×11 lined legal pad that we buy by the kilo, since he also asserts that when I die he’s going to insert a multi-pack of them into my coffin for my use in the hereafter.