Terri – Page 12 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Warning: Mandatory Annual Summer Weather Whine Ahead

It is that time of year again… time for me to vent about how uncomfortable and inconvenient the weather in Florida can be during the summer. Summer happens from May through all of October here, so I think I am entitled to rage against the rain. Last year, we had a relatively mild summer. I made it to September before I published my mandatory annual summer weather whine. I fear that will not be the case in 2021.

You know how people use all those lovely poetic similes to describe weather… a blanket of snow, a blanket of fog, a veil of mist, etc.? In Florida, we have a blanket of mug. For almost half the year, our air is too heavy to breathe. When I was a child in Southern California, there were sometimes smog alerts. We were encouraged to stay inside and to avoid breathing. Smog was nothing compared to the liquid-laden air we are expected to inhale in central Florida.

When I began writing this piece, on June 13, the summer mug descended upon us. I realize that the calendar says it is not yet summer, but someone forgot to tell Mother Nature. When I went into church that morning, it looked like a beautiful spring day. Some time during the service, a noise began to rise through the rafters of the church. At first, I thought it might be our air conditioner, which always starts with an overture. Soon, however, I realized it was the sound of driving rain whooshing through the atmosphere and pelting the roof of the church. God confirmed this understanding by sending several huge cracks of thunder bellowing through my cognizance. Then, lightning flashed through our stained-glass windows. It was a “thunderwower.”

It is now June 17^th, and the rain has not stopped for more than a few hours since. The respite provided by those “few hours” is not all that relieving because the cooler air that typically appears when the rain cracks the humidity barrier is very short-lived. It is a constant unpleasant cycle of heightened heat and humidity, interrupted briefly by a thunderwower when the cloudburst cools things off and lances the boil of the water-heavy air, only to find the atmosphere building sog once again when the shower has passed. The weather teases in this way, making us believe that there is going to be a break but the discomfort marches on. The worst part is that it is already difficult to see the light at the end of the lightning. It feels like the summer weather will NEVER stop. I look at pictures of myself at Disney World last December wearing a jacket, jeans, and UGGs. I cannot quite believe that time will ever come again.

It is not simply the discomfort of the weather that is the problem. I am one of those people who genuinely enjoys planning the simplest of activities and looking forward to them. I am not really a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment kind of gal. I delight in scheduling fun activities weeks ahead of time. I get excited as the appointed day gets closer. In the summer, planning and scheduling any activity is a fool’s errand. Obviously, outdoor activities are weather-dependent. Even indoor activities are iffy because it is common for the storms to be so bad that one cannot see the road in front of them when driving. I cannot even schedule a series of back-up plans because the weather is so contrary and unpredictable. We never know what the skies will bring even a day ahead of time. Plans are wishes and schedules are fantasies. This makes me fidgety.

I am afraid that I am not the most pleasant of companions from June to October. You know how some people have that Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and need light treatment to replicate sun exposure? I have something like that. It is not so much lack of sun. After all, Florida is the “Sunshine State.” Why it is the “Sunshine State,” I am not sure, considering how much it rains. Still, there is plenty of sunshine… just like there is plenty of sunshine on Venus. It is more that the rain, humidity, and inability to look forward to fun activities feels oppressive to me. My mood feels as heavy as the air. I try to be self-aware. I try to force myself to be engaged and pleasant. Sometimes, I succeed.

Last summer, I think I was more tolerant of the wicked weather partly because the summer was milder but also because we were in the midst of COVID-19 lockdown. I could not go out and do things, anyway. It seemed churlish and insensitive to complain about my life being limited by weather when there was a much more serious limitation stalking all of us. This year, I am even less tolerant than usual. It feels like the world is finally opening and the weather is pushing the door shut again.

I know I am being petulant and whiny. I know that I made the choice to live in Florida. I know that I like living here for the most part. I know I am raging about something that would be no big deal to just about anybody who does not live in Florida. Frankly, it would not be a big deal to most people who DO live in Florida. I do not care. This is my blog, and I will cry if I want to!

What do you like or dislike most about where you live? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a whine-free day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Father’s Day

We will be celebrating Father’s Day this weekend, so I thought I would share a few memories about my own father.

My father was always good with his hands.

When I was four, I wanted bunkbeds in the worst way. He built a bunkbed from two regular twin beds.

When I was five, my father built a crib for my new Christmas doll baby. He painted it purple. Purple was my very favorite color. In those days, nothing was purple. Toys came in primary colors and sometimes pink, but not purple. To this day, I remember standing beneath the Christmas tree, hugging the doll to my chest, and exclaiming over her purple crib.

When I was six, my father built a playhouse for my brother and me in the backyard. It was two stories. The bottom story was a six-by-six apartment, complete with counters and cabinets and furniture. The upper story, accessed by a hand-made ladder, was a rooftop fort.

When I was seven, I got a pogo stick for Christmas. I have always been lacking in grace and coordination. Because my father fancied being the parent of a live child rather than the parent of a child killed in a tragic pogo-ing accident, he attached the pogo stick to a sturdy rope safety line tied to a sturdy tree limb.

When I was eight, my father decided it was time to turn our rusty old swing set into a water park attraction. He rigged up a series of garden soaker hoses to the frame of the swing set so they would water the children when he turned on the faucet.

When I was sixteen, I wanted a cedar hope chest. My father spirited away the pine toy chest my grandfather made me when I was born. He refinished it, lined it with cedar, and presented me with the most special hope chest ever.

When I was twenty-one, my father single-handedly moved me into my first apartment. He pulled all my possessions out of the storage shed where they were housed, loaded them into his pick-up truck, and hauled them up a flight of steep cement stairs to my new home.

When I was twenty-nine, my father bartered with an attorney friend to submit my divorce paperwork in return for my father’s labor in refinishing the attorney’s dining room set.

When I was thirty-two, I moved into the condo I purchased. In addition to leaving my rented apartment, I was also leaving a rather creepy relationship. Unfortunately, the guy in the creepy relationship did not want to be left. My father stayed with me in my new place for two weeks, making sure I was safe. During that time, he quietly hung a bedroom door, painted a bookcase, put pictures on my wall, and repaired the finish on the bathroom sink.

When I was thirty-four, my father rigged up a seatbelt for my mutant Welsh corgi to keep her from trying to shift gears on my car as I traversed the rather steep and treacherous highway that took me from my house to the town were my parents lived. The said Welsh corgi had taken it into her head to push the gear shift into “park” one day as I was curving my way down the mountain, so my father built a solution.

When I was thirty-six, my father died suddenly. His body sputtered, stalled, and could not be restarted. His death was life-shattering. His loss left a huge tear in my soul that never healed properly. This was the one and only instance I can remember when my father could not use his skill with his hands to fix a problem for me.

Yes, my father was always very good with his hands. He was also very good with his heart.

Happy Father’s Day! What memories do you have of your father? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a heart-filled day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

It’s A God Thing

The first Christmas my mother was in Florida, Max and I went to her mobile home to get our festive on. We enjoyed a meal together, opened presents, called my brother, laughed, and had a wonderful time. We brought a home video with us of a recent visit to Disney World. Max asked my mother if she would like to see it. She said “yes, but I’d like to tell you about something first, if you don’t mind.” She seemed very purposeful about the conversation, as if she had been saving some big news to tell us at just the right time. She told us it was something she had never told anyone before. Of course, we told her we did not mind and focused our attention on her story.

When my mother was living in California, she was the queen of the volunteers at a local dam, lake, and hydroelectric power center. She was a docent at the education center and coordinated all the volunteers. My mom’s story involved an incident that happened at the lake over a year before that Christmas. She told us that there was a group of visitors from a church group at the lake one day. After she gave them her normal educational spiel, she chatted with them for a little while. They noticed that she had a walker and that her mobility was severely limited. They asked if they could pray for her. As she explained to us, she said yes because “why not?” After they prayed, she felt stronger and more physically comfortable. When she got up to go home, she realized she could move without pain and could walk unassisted without her walker. It only lasted a few hours, but she always remembered the experience. Mom asked us if we thought she was crazy. I told her that I definitely did not think she was crazy- I thought she had experienced a mini-miracle. God was just letting her know He was still there.

I always did believe God can heal. I think He sometimes does heal, but I also think He does not often interfere with the natural order of things. Still, my mother’s experience really got me thinking about how God works in our lives in a variety of ways. Ever since she told us about her mini-miracle experience, I have tried to pay attention for little “coincidences” that might not be coincidences.

Soon after I joined the Episcopal Church, I attended a “ministry fair” after service one day. I did not know a lot of people very well at that time. My mother had died a few months earlier and I had some time to devote to volunteering. Remembering a conversation I had with the rector when I was “church-shopping,” I wanted to find a way I could serve in my new congregation. One of the church employees (let’s call him Dave) was manning a table to drum up interest in the Alpha program. Alpha is an international program designed to nurture people who are wrestling with the big questions of life and faith. Intended for people who would not necessarily identify as Christian, it is also a faith-builder for people who do consider themselves Christian but do not feel as connected as they wish they did. Alpha was a new ministry in our parish. I thought it might be a good fit for me because the techniques and approach in the Alpha program seemed similar to the leadership training programs I taught during my career.

I agreed to go to a meeting of those who were interested in volunteering. One of the positions that Dave was trying to fill was a hospitality coordinator. This volunteer would be responsible for creating environment, making guests feel comfortable, arranging for a meal to be served during each of the twelve sessions, cleaning up, and other duties as assigned. It seemed very much like hosting a dinner party for about 50 people every week for twelve weeks. Now, I am about as far on the introversion as one can get without falling off the edge of the world. Up until I started working with Alpha, I had never given a party in my life. I don’t really cook. I certainly don’t iron tablecloths. However, I do have a rather good background in creating the environment from my leadership training days. I explained my strengths and weaknesses to Dave who was quick to tell me that “we” could get me help for all the things I do not do well if I would only agree to coordinate the hospitality piece of the program. I agreed. For those of you who would like to read more about my Alpha adventures, you can read these earlier posts (alpha course – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement and alpha – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement).

I struggled my way through several weeks of hospitality-ing still wondering how on earth I ended up in this position. One day, Dave told me about a conversation he had with our rector and his wife, Sunny, early in the planning process- weeks before the ministry fair. He told them he was excited about launching the Alpha program but was worried about who he could find to do the hospitality piece of the undertaking. Sunny said, “Don’t worry. Terri will do it.” She had been praying and felt like God was directing her that I would take on the role. She barely knew me at the time and certainly did not know my leadership training background.

I have continued with Alpha in a leadership role through three courses now.

During this past Alpha season, there was another odd occurrence. Because of the COVID-19 pandemic, we were not able to host our regular “in person,” “shared meal” version of Alpha. We decided to try to run the course on Zoom. It turned out to be surprisingly successful, despite the lack of tablecloths, real coffee mugs, and dinner for fifty. However, there was one annoying barrier- internet upload speed. Because we were showing downloaded videos, it was critical that the person hosting the evening (that would be me) have above average internet speed and stability. In the area where I live, internet upload speed sucks. We are still living in a location that has not been fiber-opticized, so everyone’s technology is at least a generation behind more urban areas. I can easily use Zoom from my home but showing videos on it is much more of a challenge. Other members of the team tried also but were unable to do the video sharing from home. Even at the church, everyone except me seemed to have trouble getting any connection at all and certainly could not show the videos. I was going on a trip during one week of the course. One of my teammates was going to host the session that night. Laughingly, I left my laptop with her in case she had trouble doing exactly what I did each week on her computer. Neither of us could imagine why she would not be able to do exactly what I did when she was using the same program, the same internet location, and the same process. Guess what? Neither of the two computers she brought with her worked. The only way the process worked was if she used my computer in the church office.

Later in the Alpha program, I was preparing for a session about whether God still heals today. To prepare for the Alpha evenings, I usually watch the video, review the information in both the Alpha guest guide and the team leader guide, think about points I want to make sure come up in the after-video discussion, and craft discussion questions to try to elicit those points. That week, I just had an extraordinarily strong sense that I was not supposed to do any of that… I was just supposed to pray. In the days leading up to the session, two words kept coming into my head. I mulled them over in my mind and safeguarded them until it was time for the discussion. I told my group what had been going on and shared the two words with them. It turned out that they were significant to someone close to one of my group members. We prayed for that person and my group member told her about what had happened. It was very meaningful and encouraging for that person.

Recently, a close friend of mine died. A few days before she passed, I sat by her bed, stroking her hair. Suddenly, it came into my head to sing “You Are My Sunshine” to her. She smiled at me, closed her eyes, and seemed to feel peaceful. A few days later, her husband called me to ask my assistance in planning her funeral. He told me that he was arranging the music and would make sure the music included “You Are My Sunshine” because it was her favorite song. I did not know that. He did not know that I had sung it to her shortly before she died.

These are just a few of the experiences I have had that could be explained away as coincidences. I could relate many more. As their numbers start to mount up as I pay more and more attention to them, I wonder about them. What do you think? Coincidence or grace? All I will say is that they don’t call it amazing grace for nothing.

Have you ever had an experience that you cannot quite explain away as a coincidence? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have an amazing day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

More Buckets

As I considered my tale about my College of William and Mary fantasy, I started thinking about other bucket list items I have embraced in recent years. Retirement can truly be a great time for pondering what it is that we really want to do… and making it happen. It can be easy to get stuck in the “pondering” part, which can be a little disillusioning or embittering. It can also be a bit anxiety-producing and manic if the “making it happen” part overtakes all good sense. The key, as it is with almost all of life, is balancing. There is quite a bit to be said for daydreaming and luxuriating in your “what ifs.” It is even more satisfying to take some of those “what ifs” and make them “now whats?”

I do not think I realized how much I have been doing that in the past several years until I began working on the William and Mary piece.

Bucket list activities do not have to be exotic, dangerous, or even expensive. It depends on the kind of person you are and what satisfies your soul. I am a bit quirky. There is no denying it. I am not, however, exotic. My soul-satisfying activities over the past few years do not involve jumping out of planes or going on safari or winning a Nobel prize. Still, they have all brought me great happiness- in the pondering and in the doing. Here are a few of my favorite bucket list accomplishments:

I’ve been publishing a blog, nearly ever week, for over five years.

I’ve published two books.

I’ve swum with dolphins several times.

I’ve been Bippity-boppetied.

I’ve been to New England to see the fall foliage.

I’ve taken courses at the College of William and Mary.

I’m sure if I thought about it, I could come up with a number of other experiences that have delighted my spirit. In fact, there is one that just came up the other day.

Those of you who have been paying attention know that I am a bit of a Disnerd. My parents called me Tinker Bell from the time I was born. I spent my childhood three miles from Disneyland. When I contemplated moving in retirement, Florida was a top contender largely because I could get frequent doses of Disney.

Now, I would be incredibly happy if the COVID epidemic never happened. It has been a health, financial, and emotional crisis for the whole world. I do not want to seem insensitive to the tragedies that occurred because of this horrible disease. I am not insensitive. I know people who were terribly ill. I know one person who died. Please do not think I am making light of the situation.

When Disney did reopen, there was a unique opportunity. They opened carefully and with respect for public health issues. They opened first for special minimal capacity passholder events. Even when the parks opened to the general public, they enforced a limited capacity by employing a reservation system. During this time, I have visited the parks several times. I have been able to experience “hot ticket” rides that are usually so popular I am not able to get on them under normal circumstances. There were about four or five newer attractions that I wanted to experience but had never waited in the 60 minute plus lines to get on them. I have been knocking them out during the COVID-tainted reopening. Some, I have been able to ride more than once.

Yesterday, I was able to ride the last attraction on my “never done before” list- Mickey and Minnie’s Runaway Railroad at Disney’s Hollywood Studios. I have now been on every ride I want to at Walt Disney World at least once.

#lifegoals!

What do you think? Is my bucket a little shallow? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have an adventurous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Buckets

I would not say that I have any regrets in life. Even people, decisions, and events that caused me trouble or pain have made me who I am today. Everything from the past frames the life I live now. Since I am pretty satisfied with who I am and the life I have, I cannot regret anything. I would not want to do things differently.

There are, however, a few things I wish I could revisit. I am not going as far as saying I wish I had not done what I did at the time, but I wish I could somehow go back and take the path that I did not take the first time around. I want to experience two parallel realities… what I actually did and what I left behind.

One of those few “path not taken” experiences has to do with my college years. I read many novels as a kid about teenagers going to college. These teenagers always seemed to be going off to ivy-covered halls, living in dorms in beautiful small college towns, and enjoying an entire college lifestyle. Their time was filled with coursework, socializing, studying all night in the library, and participating in a mad rush of school spirited activities. Admittedly, most of these books were published in the forties and fifties. I graduated from high school in 1977. I am sure my experience would have been much different.

Still, I imagined the college life inside my head. I fantasized about a college life that would look like the rah-rah-sis-boom-bah lives of the co-eds in my novels. I saw myself going away to college, developing a life away from the safety net of my familiar surroundings and loving parents. Growing up in Southern California, I dreamed of going to a school someplace that had seasons where I would wear crisp wool skirts and sweaters when classes started in the fall, see snow blanket the campus under the sharp winter night, join hordes of rollicking students welcoming spring relaxing under the warm sun on the quad, and happily go home for a refuel each summer. I craved history and charm. I did not necessarily think of an Ivy League School, but I did want a school that oozed history and tradition. I did not want to go to a mid-century “living better electrically” university. I would not go to an “education factory.” I would go to a college where education was a fine art.

As the time approached for me to apply to colleges, somehow all my fantasies deserted me. For some reason, I never thought I could make my fantasies a reality. In looking back now, I think there was every chance I could have done so. My grades were excellent. I had reasonable SAT scores. I participated in the speech club, girls service club, high school newspaper, and Junior Achievement. I came from a solidly middle class, blue color family. My parents made enough money to live comfortably, but I was afraid that the cost of educating me at a private college where I would need to be a resident would be beyond their grasp. I never asked and I still do not know if they would have been able to help me. I did have a part-time job in my last year of high school, although I did not make much money. I could have paid for part of the cost. I also could have applied for grants and loans. My parents believed it would be impossible for me to get financial aid because they were in a sandwich economic bracket- not wealthy enough to afford a “fancy” college education and too well off for me to qualify for financial aid. Today, I am not so sure that would have been true, especially if I had gone to a more expensive institute of higher education.

I also worried about leaving home. I wondered if I was confident and mature and worldly enough to hold my own in college lecture classes of 100 students, much less live an independent life. Now, I know that most graduating seniors feel the same way. College does not necessarily require that one already have these confidence, maturity, and worldliness skills. In fact, college is the place many young people acquire them.

Whatever the reason, finances or maturity, I did not achieve my dream of going away to college. I spent two years at the neighborhood community colleges, completing most of my general education classes and earning an AA degree. The man I eventually married called it “high school with ash trays.” I continued to work while attending classes. When I finished there, I transferred to a local commuter college about 15 miles from the home where I lived with my family. Four years and about $2000 (all in) later, I proudly graduated. I had my degree. I had set myself up to move respectably into a stable government job. I had a bachelor’s degree, but I do not think I can say I really had the “college experience.”

Years past. I married immediately after graduation. I did well on my job. While just scraping by in the early years, I could take care of myself and my husband financially. I continued to progress in my career. I received promotions and pay raises. Eventually, Congress passed a federal pay reform act that resulted in me being quite well-paid. I bought a tiny condominium in southern California. I retired with a nice pension, sold my condo at a great profit, and bought my sweet little house here in Florida.

My career also provided me with enough money to take vacations. Over the course of the years, I visited Williamsburg, VA several times. My parents spent their honeymoon there and we stopped there when driving across country for a family wedding when I was about twelve. I went once on my own as an adult. Max and I have been there three or four times. I love the place. On the first trip Max and I took, I realized that the College of William of Mary (where we spent a good deal of time on that trip) was the college or my fantasies. That was the campus that exemplified the college experience my novels described.

Now, I cannot really go back and start my college days over again. I would not even want to do that. However, in retirement I have been busy thinking about how I can capture some of what I would have wanted from that experience. I did some research and found out that William and Mary has something called the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. It offers a wide variety of limited time classes for people (aimed at the senior citizen population but open to anyone) who just want to learn “stuff.” Because of COVID, their offerings have been done through Zoom and other distance learning platforms this past year. This allowed me the opportunity to participate. For the price of $135, one could sign up for as many as eight classes in the semester. I got a bit of a late start and some of the courses that drew my attention were full when I registered, but I did sign up for two classes during the spring semester. This involved 4 sessions and added up to about 8 hours of instruction. It was terrific! It was so good, I am continuing this summer. The summer session is even less expensive, and I have four classes I will be taking.

Last month, when Max and I were in Williamsburg, we walked around the campus again and I felt such a sense of connection. It was so indescribably satisfying. In the bookstore, there was a small stuffed bear in a graduation gown inscribed with the William and Mary logo. Max kept pushing me to bring the bear home with me. I resisted, insisting that I did not qualify to have the bear because I was only an “adjunct” student and certainly not a graduate. A few days after we got home, a neighbor came to our door to deliver a package that had been erroneously left on his porch. I opened the box and “Wilma” the bear was inside.

Sometimes, some facet of fantasy gets so enrooted in your soul, it qualifies as reality.

What event or decision in your life would you want to revisit and experience the road not taken the first time? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com

Have a regret-free day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Liberal Minded

A little while back, I spent a couple of weeks waxing poetic about the power and diversity of the human brain. It is an interesting topic to ponder. I like discovering how the creativity and diversity God gave us can combust in amazing ways. That chemical reaction of creativity and diversity can produce explosive results- both productive and destructive. Humans are powerful and unique creatures… by intentional design, I believe. God intended we would combine our miraculous minds to do wonderful things. Unfortunately, sometimes those miraculous minds do terrible things with just as much power and creativity. That is where that pesky “free will” thing comes into play.

While all the meanderings of my powerful and creative mind may be absolutely fascinating (at least to me), I know someone is likely to raise the question, “but what does any of this have to do with retirement?” After all, dear Terri, you call this bit of literary fluff a “retirement lifestyle blog.” You even call it “Terri LaBonte: Reinventing Myself In Retirement.” Haven’t you wandered a little far afield?

I think these are fair questions. However, I do have a few appropriate responses. Of course I do. Why would I have raised them if I did not?

First of all, the blog has been wandering off the “retirement” trail for years. There are six words in the name of the blog. Terri. LaBonte. Reinventing. Myself. In. Retirement. The first four still apply. The blog, as self-involved as it may seem, is all about me, so the Terri LaBonte bit still fits. As for “Reinventing Myself,” I feel like I do that every day. I am, at the very least, “rediscovering myself.”

Secondly, I think the only way I would have time to think these great or not so great thoughts is to be retired from working for a living. Self-discovery and philosophical musings, as entertaining as they are, did not fill a slot in my Franklin planner when I was working. Days seem to move along almost without any kind of thought whatsoever. So many times, I would cry out (at least on the inside, but often on the outside as well), “Could someone please just stop the earth from turning on its axis for just a few minutes so I can reorganize my brain?” My lungs certainly worked differently in those days. I inhaled frequent, tiny, shallow nibbles of air to keep me operational while saving precious seconds of time I might have expended feasting on oxygen. Nowadays, my diaphragm relaxes, and I feel my lungs fill with air on a regular, steady basis. Sometimes, when I get too wrapped up in my post-retirement activities, I can feel my lungs starting to ration air again and I know it is time to slow myself down- something I could never do in my working life.

I think my brain operates similarly. When I was working, I was so harried and so busy and so time starved. Small, practical, critical thoughts might ooze from my tightly disciplined brain when I squeezed my mind hard enough, but there was nothing free-flowing, organic, or invigorating about thinking. Now that retirement gives me time, my brain relaxes and wanders off on its own. Sometimes, I think some satisfying thoughts. And sometimes, I am just silly. Either way shows a certain delight with myself that was missing in my work life.

The third reason I think that sharing thoughts not necessarily about life in retirement is appropriate for a retirement lifestyle blog has to do with how one is conditioned. When I was working, not only did I not have a lot of spare time to network with the uniqueness of my mental disposition, but I also found that my job required that my brain behave in a certain way. I will not say that creativity and individual talent had no place in my career. I think they did. I will say, though, that I learned early on that the creativity and individual talent is best received when presented in an employer-shaped box tied up with agency-colored ribbons. My agency, like most corporate, hierarchical entities, did not value brains that wandered wildly. When a brain sits in a box for too long, it is apt to stay there until someone opens the package.

One of the sweetest things about retirement is that one’s mind becomes one’s own. When we walk out the door of our workplace, our employer hands us back that brain in a box. We have the time to open the package and we have the freedom to do so. We can even throw the package away. Since retirement, I am often able to let my mind behave as it wishes. For me, that means thinking and exploring and creating in ways I never could have when I was earning my living as a brain-for-hire.

So maybe “Terri LaBonte: Reinventing Myself In Retirement” is not exactly the best name anymore. Maybe I should reinvent the title of the blog. Maybe, from now on, I should call it “Terri LaBonte And Her Liberated Brain.”

So, what do you think? Should I change the name of the blog? How have your mental processes changed since retirement? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a liberated day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Shot Down

As the COVID-19 vaccine rolled out over the country, I knew that I would not be in the first group eligible to receive it. Max was, but I am almost a decade younger than he is. I also knew, based on the stories all my friends were telling, that getting a spot in the vaccine lottery was a crap shoot. I had friends who waited hours in line only to be told that there was no more vaccines availability that day. I had friends who wandered from vaccine center to vaccine center, like Mary and Joseph looking for room at the inn. I was lucky in that I was able to get Max an appointment online for both his vaccine doses at the same time. It meant having to drive 35 miles each way to the next county for both doses, but it was worth it.

There were several problems with the vaccine distribution in the beginning. First, the vaccine became available the week between Christmas and New Year’s. That is kind of a recipe for administrative disaster in and of itself. No one, of course, would even consider holding off the vaccine distributions for a week. We had been waiting so long that everyone was committed to slogging through whatever process management sludge existed to begin getting shots in arms.

The state of Florida probably should have had a better system in place when the vaccines started arriving. I believe that there was a lot of preparation and decision-making about how to handle the distribution, especially about establishing priorities. We all knew who was going to be first up to bat. I even believe there was a lot of planning as to logistics, but that planning was not “just in time.” Because no one knew how many vaccines were coming when, no one could really staff and open the vaccine appointment phone lines and vaccine centers immediately when the vaccines crossed state lines. Therefore, when vaccines arrived and authorities rushed to get people immunized, there was no clear process in place yet. Other than the parameters set up for the “who’s first?” decision, everything else was pretty random. I think we could have done a better job of setting up the infrastructure so that when it was “go time,” the grab ‘em and stab ‘em processes could start functioning immediately. Someone should have been building a web-based appointment scheduling system as quickly as someone was working on a vaccine.

I will say that I was impressed with the immediacy with which Florida jumped into the jabbing. It was certainly confusing and frustrating and upsetting to all the people playing musical vaccine centers in the beginning, but Florida clearly prioritized getting the job done even if it the process was ugly. Also, the people staffing the sites have been consistently amazing. Everyone I know sings the praises of every person with whom they interacted. When we went to get Max’s vaccines, the atmosphere was far from harried or stressful. Despite all the bruhaha involved in the scheduling process, the workers seemed unflappable, friendly, and calm. In fact, there was almost a party vibe in the auditorium.

Finally, as vaccine supplies stabilized and distribution increased, it was time for me to schedule my immunization. I had registered to “save my place in line” when that option first became available, long before I was eligible for a shot. I never thought that would work. However, as soon as my number came up, I was able to go online and schedule an appointment in a location about 8 miles from our house. I also received several calls from the nice people at the Florida Health Department to make sure I had an appointment. I was somewhat concerned because the system only permitted an appointment for my first dose, but the fact that the contact system seemed to work heartened me.

When the day came for my first shot, I marched into the abandoned Sears building and proffered my arm as a target. I have been saying all along that I was not particularly worried about getting the novel coronavirus myself. My fears were more social than personal health oriented. Weirdly, though, when the needle went into my arm for that first shot, I had a huge feeling of lightness and relief. I don’t know if I was more scared than I thought I was. It was probably just a relief that there was this very tangible sign that the world’s focus is taking a detour off the highway to “survival mode” and exiting via the offramp to “normal life.” Whatever it was, it has been a rougher year on my psyche than I knew. Experiencing the vaccine process was such a clear glimpse of a path forward, it gave me a lot of joy. We are not “there” yet when it comes to “normal life,” but the vaccine showed us that there is a way to get “there.” I just hoped that the system would work, and I would be able to get an appointment for dose two without significant Divine intervention.

A day or so after my first shot, I had a mild reaction. I was lethargic and tired. My arm hurt. I never had a real fever. My temperature typically runs low, and it did go up a couple of degrees. It was so not a big deal. I only mention it because it was noticeable. The reaction stopped within 36 hours.

The contact system worked, and I got a call for my second dose a few days before it was due. I made an appointment and confidently scooted down to the abandoned Sears. I was anticipating some sort of reaction because I heard the second dose was usually worse than the first and I did have SOME reaction to the first.

After the second dose, which did seem to sting a bit more going in than the first one, I sat in the waiting area waiting to explode for the requisite fifteen minutes. During that fifteen minutes, I congratulated myself for completing the process. My goal had been to get both doses before our planned trip to Williamsburg on April 17. I met my goal. Even though I was not going to have my full two-week incubation period after the second shot, I felt comfortable that I was well protected before getting on the airplane. Mostly, I was just glad that I was done and wouldn’t have to play “Stalk the Vaccine” anymore. When I did not spontaneously combust after the requisite fifteen minutes, I walked out of the vaccine stockade with a smug spring in my step.

It turns out…. I was not done. Not by a longshot. An hour or so after dose two, I began to feel the familiar tiredness. I could barely keep my head upright. My neck seemed to be liquifying. My arm was killing me. I went home and tried icing my arm, which did not seem to help much. I also kept ingesting water like it was going to stop coming out of the tap. As the day progressed, I began to feel crummier, but I had expected the reaction. I was not alarmed. I just went to bed early, believing I would feel better in the morning.

And I did. When I got up the next day, I did not feel great, but I did feel better. I felt more tenderness and sensitivity than actual pain. At first. By midday, I was officially trashed. Every place on body that could hurt did hurt- every bone, every muscle, every joint, every molecule. I tried to stay as still as I possibly could because moving in any way caused shooting pains somewhere. I also had a massive headache. Any cognitive ability I ever had was long gone. I mostly sat wrapped in an afghan in a recliner and stared stupidly into space. My arm hurt, but that was almost a non-issue, given that I hurt EVERYWHERE. Still, when Max felt my shot arm and then felt my other arm, it was abundantly clear that shot arm was living in a different climate than the other one. The injection site was hot to the touch. When evening came, I checked my temperature. I had a fever of 101 degrees, which is about four degrees above my normal temperature.

The next morning, it was like a miracle. I still had some vague achiness, and my arm was still protesting loudly, but I felt so much better. I still cannot say I am completely done, as my arm still hurts from time to time, three weeks later. I know I am getting there, though.

They say that reactions mean that the vaccine is working properly. I must have some exceptionally talented immunity builders in my physiology. I am certain I have some pretty kick-ass antibodies running around my bloodstream about now!

Have you received your COVID vaccine yet? If not, why not? If so, what kind of reaction did you have? My reaction was unpleasant, but certainly less unpleasant than getting COVID. It does feel great to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem!

Have an immune day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Wayback Wednesday- Mission To Marry Part Two

This post continues the story of my quest for love and marriage that I started last week. I recommend that you read last week’s post ( Wayback Wednesday- Mission To Marry (Part One) – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement ) first. In full disclosure, I wrote this essay 10 years ago, so specific facts (for instance, ages, shared life experiences, etc.) are no longer accurate.

The realization that it was okay if I ended a relationship because the man just was not the person I wanted did nothing to stop my search for love and marriage. I took a moment to remind myself that I wanted more than a husband. I also wanted happiness. Then, I decided to up my game. I attended an adult education class called “How To Meet The Right Person.” At the end of the class, I signed up for private lessons from the instructor. Imagine! I was plunking down $75 a week for private tutoring in the art of meeting people who might like the real me and I might be able to enjoy without twisting my personality into a pretzel.

My dating guru suggest some strategies and gave me some assignments. He even set me up on some “practice dates” with other clients. In one situation, he sat at a nearby table and gave us feedback about our presentation and dating skills. I almost expected one of those electronic score boards that you see in the Olympics. At any minute, I figured a blinking “2.1” would come up on the wall in the restaurant to tell the whole world how far away I was from a perfect “10”.) It was all incredibly stressful and emotionally draining. I was still experiencing all these situations as me trying to fix myself to be good enough for this man rather than realizing I was supposed to be deciding if this man was good enough for me.

Just as I was summoning courage to discontinue my private dating lessons and cut off the guru’s $75 per week, he made one last suggestion. He mentioned a singles dance he thought I might attend. The event was what I referred to as “the pudgy people’s dance.” It was sponsored by an organization that celebrated women with “more ample” figures. I was little skeptical and, to be honest, more than a little horrified that the “secret” that I am overweight was out of the bag. Still, I told myself, if I was going to pay this guy $75 a week, I should at least try to get my money’s worth.

The night of the dance, I entered the room tentatively. Within minutes, I was surrounded by gentlemen of all sizes, ethnicities, and ages asking me to dance. I relaxed. I had fun. I talked to people. I set down my worries about not being good enough, since this bunch seemed to think I was plenty good enough. I stopped trying to be the woman trying to attract a husband and started being one of the gang.

That night, I met a wonderful man. A man who, specifically, is wonderful for me. We both loved movies and had some of the same favorites. We both loved Las Vegas. We both enjoyed some of the same music. We both had similar religious values. We both were financially sound. We both had successful lives with career, family, and friends. We each had interests that we did not hold in common at the time, but that we could grow to enjoy together in the future. We were both wildly attracted to each other.

It has been almost 16 years since that night. We are still together. Between us, we have lost three parents since we met, weathered illnesses and surgery, gone through job changes, and shared the sorrow of saying good-by to my elderly welsh corgi. We work well together as a team and we play so joyfully that I cannot imagine how my world would keep moving should he not be in it. He moved into my tiny, one-bedroom, one-bathroom condo nine years ago. He has filled every inch of that small space with love.

No, I still do not have the husband for whom I worked so hard. I suppose you could say that my mission to marry has been a failure. Now and again, there are times- when I watch a wedding on TV, or a friend gets married, or I am feeling a bit “not lovable enough to marry”- when I still dream of a proposal and of a wedding. After all, if nothing else, there is something kinda ludicrous about calling a man your boyfriend when you are 52 years old and the “boy” in question is 60.

More often, though, I understand that my mission to marry didn’t really fail. Sometimes, on a mission, you do not accomplish what you wanted, but you do accomplish what you needed. I may not have the husband, but there is no doubt in my mind that I have the happiness.

What are your thoughts? Have you also experienced a “mission to marry?” Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a HAPPY day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

PS For those of you who want to receive automated email notifications every time I post new content, please read Bonus Blog from yesterday. I think I’ve figured out how to fix the glitch.

Bonus Blog

For those of you who have been waiting with baited breathe for the second installment of Wayback Wednesday- Mission To Marry, I’ll be publishing that tomorrow morning. I wanted to try a little experiment today to see if I could bring my technological wanderings back into line.

Awhile back, I noticed that I was not getting the regular automated email reminders when I posted new content. I did not think too much about it. I figured it was something just with me, as I often get lost in techno-hell. However, in the last week, two of you wonderful readers have approached me with the same question. You are not receiving the automated notifications that there is another serving of Terri waiting for you in the blogosphere. Can’t have that. What gives?

I have spent many hours trying to figure this out. I have failed. I still do not know what gives. I do not know why my push notification feature pushed itself right out of my wordpress account (or is it jetpack?- I have a hard time telling what does what and which password goes with which- I do suffer for my art.) That is the bad news. The good news is I think I have found a tool to fix the problem or at least let me start the subscription service from scratch.

I know that there are about 30 of you who were receiving automated notification under whatever old system has abandoned us. If you get a notification when I post this piece, we are golden. If not, it looks like my workaround will mean you will need to resubscribe if you want to receive those notifications.

For anyone who did not previously subscribe for notifications and for those of you who did, but are not getting them now, there is a pretty easy way to get on board. There is a box to subscribe at the side of the homepage (under the long list of months since the beginning of the blog) if you are on a computer or at the very bottom of the scrolling on the homepage (if you are on a phone.) Please just include your email in the space provided. You will receive an email asking you to confirm your intentions. Once you click on that, you should be in business.

Thank you for your support and patience! Love you!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

Did it work? Could some of you let me know if you received the notification?

Wayback Wednesday- Mission To Marry (Part One)

This begins a two-part essay that will be the last in my “Wayback Wednesday” series. In full disclosure, I wrote this essay 10 years ago, so specific facts (for instance, ages, shared life experiences, etc.) are no longer accurate.

After my husband dumped me (or, as I prefer to think of it now, “released me for good behavior”) nearly seven years into a bad marriage, I stumbled through a serious of unfortunate relationships. I was engaged for about half an hour to a lithium-resistant fellow on disability for his bipolar disorder. I spent several years dating a guy whose idea of a romantic birthday gift was a rain gage. I had dinner with a thrice married man and his young daughter nearly every night for a couple of years. I was imagining a married life in which our little threesome would be a happy family. He was imagining me babysitting his daughter while he dated other women.

Eventually, I came to the same sad conclusion that women have been coming to for centuries. There’s gotta be a better way to run a love life.

Although I never would have admitted it, I was always one of those women who defines herself too much by her relationship status. Oh, in the light of the “real world,” I said all the right things. I grew up in the first blush of the modern feminism movement. I graduated college in the eighties and went blithely into the workforce, wearing shoulder pads in my polyester business suits. I knew that my happiness and power were supposed to come from within me and they were within my control. I knew a modern woman was supposed to concentrate on her own career, her own interests, and her own personal growth. I knew I was supposed to believe that, if I did all those things, love and marriage would take care of themselves.

However, in the darkest part of my soul, I doubted. I doubted so loudly, I could not hear all the wise, conventional axioms about modern womanhood I knew I was supposed to believe. No matter how strongly a voice inside me tried to insist, “you should be yourself and make your own happiness” and “when the time is right and you are ready for it, love will find you,” an uglier voice rebutted vociferously. That ugly voice said, “no one will ever fall in love with you” and “you are not normal or adequate enough to find a husband and have children.” That ugly voice won the shouting match, I am sorry to say.

Therefore, when a boy I met in high school asked me to marry him (largely because he wanted sex and good Catholic girls didn’t put out without at least an engagement ring,) I accepted. My acceptance of his proposal mystified everyone who knew me. The common opinion was that me getting engaged to this guy defied all logic. It did not defy logic at all. When you are certain that no one will ever want you and you are sure that the only way to be happy is to get married, it is perfectly logical to accept a proposal from pretty much anyone.

As you might imagine, given its genesis, the marriage did not work. Eventually, my husband left me and I was again alone. His departure convinced me that the secret was out that I was “too” something or “not enough” something to enter that “young girls club” of marriage and family that I read about and saw on television. I was too ugly or too inept or not sexy enough or not nurturing enough or something. I did not know how to fix any of those things. I also did not understand that the only way to fix them was within myself and not by snaring another man. My campaign began in earnest. I was on a mission to marry.

For the next several years of my life, I tried numerous techniques to find love. I tried personal ads in the newspaper. For all you youngsters out there, this was the primeval equivalent of internet dating. I tried joining clubs. As it turns out, all the clubs I chose seemed to be already populated by many single women. Not that there aren’t men out there who enjoy ceramics-painting and small art house theater, but it seems clubs centered around these pursuits are often magnets for desperate women who just need to get out more. I tried going to singles dances. I experience some success with this activity because the venues were usually dimly lit. I am sure I would have fared better in that environment if my appearance did not so readily remind single men of the “before” pictures in TV commercials for various self-improvement products. I tried hanging out at church after services. Shame on me for using the House of the Lord as a spiritual singles bar! It didn’t work, anyway. I tried flirting with men at work, which was just plain terrifying. I even tried joining a professional video dating service. I do plead a certain amount of innocence on that one. I won the membership in a drawing. It would have been gut-wrenching to actually pay for something so unsuccessful.

I remember going to one singles dance sponsored by a club at a church. I found myself to be the belle of the ball that night. I danced constantly and had masculine company at every turn. Several asked for my phone number. One invited himself to my upcoming 35^th birthday celebrations. I had a line of admirers to walk me to my car at the evening’s end.

The next day my mother called me. “So, how did it go?” she asked. I paused and asked tentatively, “Does Daddy like me?” “What?!” she replied, “Of course he likes you.” “Well, so does every other 70-year-old man in the country,” I replied. It says something about my state of mind that I was considering trying to lure one of these lovely gentlemen twice my age down the aisle.

This incident highlights a hallmark of that place in my life. I thought I was taking control of my own fate and doing things that would get me what I wanted with such single-minded ferocity… a husband. How could I look slimmer? How could I present as sexier? How could I make small talk more easily and breezily? How could I appear more “normal” and subdue my naturally childlike (and now, can I say… charming?) personality? And, above all, how could I hide my addiction to all things Tinker Bell?

The real story is that I never really did think about what I wanted. I was always too busy plotting to figure out how I could present the traits the single men out there wanted and how to hide the parts of me that I suspected would be unappealing to a prospective husband, I never bothered to evaluate the men who I were so sure were evaluating me and finding me wanting.

When I hit my wall after parting company with the guy who bought me a rain gage for a birthday present, I realized there had to be a better way. I realized that, while the break-up with Mr. Rain Gage had been mutual, it was I who initiated it. Why did I initiate it? He was a perfectly nice man. It just occurred to me that he wasn’t what I wanted! It was a novel concept. I was alone, not because I was somehow lacking or because the potential husband saw past my façade and realized I wasn’t what he wants. I was alone because the man I was seeing wasn’t what I needed. I realized it was okay.

To be continued….

Terri/Dorry 🙂