Tag: retirement lifestyle blog

Trippy

It is probably a good thing that I have always carried substantial extra padding on my body. I am a klutz. Given the frequency with which I fall over my own feet, my body would be in shattered shards by now without the organic protective gear God gave me. Okay, maybe it was ice cream and not necessarily God’s design. I’ve always said that God can use even something awful to create something wonderful. I guess the fact that I am still standing reasonably upright most of the time is a testament to that philosophy.

This is not something new for me, so I can’t blame it primarily on aging. I agree that I need to be more careful as I perambulate around the planet since I do notice some slight changes in my physicality in the last year or two. It isn’t anything major, but those changes do exist. I know I am less agile. My bones and joints are less able to absorb shocks. My eyesight is not as sharp or as broad. My body more often seems like an alien entity quite removed from my brain. These small signs portend a day when the physical changes may become more limiting. I am also pretty sure that, at some point, I am likely to become more brittle. I will have a harder time bouncing instead of breaking.

Still, my klutziness has been a part of who I am for as long as I can remember. When most children learn to walk, climb stairs, jump, balance, and rearrange their bodies to do the darndest things, I learned to fall. It has been a valuable life skill.

When I was six, I fell off a jungle gym because, contrary to my brain’s perception, my arms were nowhere near long enough to swing from one monkey bar to another. When I was nine, I went to a roller-skating rink. I hugged the railing that surrounded the rink, inching myself, hand over hand, around the circle. I was not inclined to release the rail. At some point, I hit a traffic jam. Two older boys stopped in my way, ready to rumble. They were having a bit of a heated argument. I waited for them to finish their discussion and move away from MY railing. My hands needed inching room.  After about an hour and a half- give or take 87 minutes- one of the boys reared back his arm to punch the other kid in the face.  Unfortunately, I took that moment to release the rail to bravely try to go around the situation. In pulling back his arm, the puncher ended up elbowing me with enough force to send me toppling to the ground. I would have been fine if my butt had simply hit the floor. However, the other kid had also fallen, putting his roller skate wheel directly in the path of my arm. All the damage (which necessitated a traumatic and painful trip to the hospital) resulted from the collision between my wrist and the ill-placed roller skate wheel.

I didn’t grow out of this clumsiness of mine. Fortunately, I am blessed with pretty good bone density. I stopped breaking bones after age nine. I didn’t stop falling, however.

Max has called flip-flops my “fall down” shoes for years for rather obvious and embarrassing reasons. Despite some spectacular evidence that remaining upright while wearing flip-flops is not one of my talents, I went on wearing them for way too long. Finally, he convinced me that I might better preserve both my body and my dignity if I stuck to shoes that were not built to come off quite so easily. Now, I only wear flip flops to the beach. And, yes, I fell in them while at the beach.

Even after I retired the flip flops, my feet seem to have a mind of their own. Years ago, when making my daily visit to my mother in the skilled nurse facility where she resided during her end-of-life journey, I tripped on uneven concrete and smashed myself down onto the sidewalk. Not only did I go down, but so did the chocolate milkshake I was bringing for my mother. I was so disheartened and on the edge of a breakdown my mother, who was living in the shadowland of vascular dementia and had lost just about all her ability to process language, took one look at me and clearly and alarmedly said, “Go home!” 

I fell a year or so ago when delivering food to the homebound. I somehow missed the last two steps backwards when descending the steps to a client’s mobile home. The poor gentleman was horrified and insisted I come in so he could doctor my wound with Neosporin and ply me with hydration. I am so glad I have the opportunity to serve.

Last week, I encountered my latest fall from grace. I say that because I definitely fell without grace. I was hurrying back into the house from the garage after taking out the trash. Something in me snapped and I had a moment of absolute irrational panic. A fight or flight response took over my brain and it compelled me to rush madly back inside the house, completely missing the small step that loomed between me and safety. I caught the tip of my shoe on the step, which launched me directly into the drywall and hall closet door that is directly across from the garage door. That was not good enough for me, though. I am not your everyday klutz. I had to earn a score of 10 in clumsiness. I ricocheted off the closet door and was propelled to the ceramic floor tile. I am happy to report that the tile survived the onslaught.

Max heard my crashing and crumpling but could not see me. He called out, “are you okay?” My subdued, muffled, out-of-body “no” brought him running to me. I don’t think he expected to see me on the floor. This little unintentional gymnastic move caused me to twist my waist, hit my head on both the closet door and ceramic tile, smash my arm against the drywall, tweak my shoulders, and become aware of parts of my body I did not know I had. I lay on the ground for a few minutes, trying to regain my equilibrium and sense of self. Finally, I asked Max to bring a kitchen chair over to me so that I could use it to pull myself to a standing position once more.

When I was upright, I took a more disimpassioned inventory of my injuries. I realized I had escaped without any significant harm. I just couldn’t seem to talk or even think. All I could do was feel- feel old, feel stupid, feel scared, feel unappealing. As the emotional tide began to rise, I could sense the tears beginning to form. The defeated feeling was familiar- I remembered it well from the Fall of the Milkshake outside the skilled nursing facility. I felt helpless and hopeless. Max could see that I was hurt in the personality, but I could not respond to his questions. He finally asked gently, “are you a little bit scared?” He hit the nail on the head as surely as I hit my head on the floor. With a llittle acknowledgement and a little cuddling, I was okay.

I did expect that I would feel worse a day or two afterwards. However, a few days have passed, and I still don’t feel too injured. I have a little stiffness, but no concussion or headache or anything like that. Heck, I don’t even have any bruises. I am a notorious late bruiser, however, so they may still be coming.

However, it is trippy how talented a tripper I am!

Have an upright day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is your superpower?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

The Charity Of Selfishness

The other day, I attended our mid-week worship service in our church chapel. I started attending this service a few years ago as a Lenten devotional. Attending that service gave me so much spiritual renewal, I decided to continue the habit throughout the year. God and I have been through a lot together over the past years at that service. I have sobbed uncontrollably. I have begged for forgiveness. I have prayed for strength, patience, protection, courage, and endurance. I have asked for guidance on how to walk in love in a world that seems bound and determined to hate. I have laughed at some of God’s little jokes. I have processed experiences I had outside the service and made sense of them in the context of God’s will for me.

As I spoke the words of the liturgy the other day, I became aware of the voices around me also praying. It reminded me of something that Rumer Godden said in her novel In This House Of Brede. In describing the role of the nuns at a cloistered monastery, she referred to the religious house as a “powerhouse of prayer.”  Yes, the nuns had avocations that the abbey monetized to be able to support itself. The nuns wrote books, did illustration work, gardened, and other day-to-day activities. That is how they paid the bills, along with donations. Their job, however, their real vocation, was prayer. Every day, the abbey received letters from people all over the world asking the nuns to pray for them. The nuns did so- in an orderly, intentional, specific, and methodical way. The abbey was a factory. The product generated from that factory was prayer.

One might unwittingly think that a cloistered order of nuns living tucked away from real life beyond the abbey gates would be about the most inner-focused thing in the world. It is easy to think of a bunch of women praying individually and together solely as an exercise in spiritual self-development. In reality, though, that inner-focused action is extremely outer-purposed. Because of the prayers of those women, the Holy Spirit ignites to power the world at large.

The same is true for our own spiritual devotions. As all our souls combine to worship and pray in a church service, we are asking God to bless us and our work. We are focusing on ourselves and our own spiritual development. There is a strong element of selfishness, or at least self-care, involved in the act of praying. However, that spiritual observation that we embrace to expand our own souls contains abundant charity as well. In the same way the nuns of Brede created a powerhouse of prayer to ignite the entire world, our prayer also raises sparks of spiritual electricity to ignite our global community.

I think the same is true for other spiritual exercises. When I attend a discussion group about elements of Christianity, I go because I want to develop my own relationship with God. However, the combined work of all the members of the group produce something much more wonderful and powerful than any one of us creates individually. When we leave the room, I would guess that each of us leaves feeling uniquely enriched. I don’t know if we ever realize how what we ourselves contributed enriched the others.

I have been retired for over 10 years.  I had an excellent job- it was interesting, important, and paid generously. I got to do some exciting, impactful things in my career. I was good at my job and my job was good to me.  Still, I was never one of those people who loved my job. In short, the job just did not fit my temperament. There were many parts of my job that were stressful and unpleasant. There were a few parts of my job that were painful but immensely rewarding. A lot of my job was neutral. There were a couple of adjunct parts of my job, however, that I did love. I got to spend a few weeks each year teaching and developing courses. When I left my career, this was the only part of my job I mourned, aside from the people with whom I worked.

In my retirement, I started looking for opportunities to do that kind of work again. I was not looking for a paying job or the kind of long-term obligation a paying job entails. I just wanted to do what I loved doing… and one of the few things for which I genuinely believe I have talent. In my new church, I have found opportunities to indulge that piece of me that reveled in creating courses and facilitating classes. That has not always been a comfortable or easy process, but the pay-off for me has been beautiful. I feel like my spiritual life is richer, stronger, and more profound because of the energy I’ve invested in these education products. It truly feels like this investment is filling my need for spiritual development rather than addressing the needs of anyone who engages in my spiritual formation classes. It feels like a privilege and an opportunity from God to do this work. It often feels selfish and completely unmerited to be the one who gets to do this stuff.

Then, I remember something I read when I first became an Episcopalian. One author said that effective ministry happens when a person’s passion, skills, talents, and intuition intersect with the needs of the people of God. Perhaps finding the perfect way to use one’s spiritual gifts in ministry is only possible if we lean into our selfishness a little bit. What do we love doing? What gives us pleasure? What gives us confidence? What are we good at? Can other people benefit from it? Perhaps that is what God always intended us to do. Perhaps that is what our most perfect charity looks like to Him… when we are most wholly the unique people He made us to be, fulfilling the unique purpose He gave us the gifts to fulfill.

What charity have you contributed out of your “selfishness?” Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a selfish day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Random Ramblings On The Road To Spiritual Maturity

Have you missed me? January is always a bit hard for me. This year, I feel like I’ve been in a period of incubation, percolating the next chapter of my journey. . 

I think I walked right into a long maelstrom of spiritual exploration and growth after my mother died. I flirted with it some before then, but that transition in my life pushed me firmly onto the path. That was in 2018. I feel like it has not let up much in the past six plus years. God has led me through a windy, thundering storm. I have felt the lightning bolts. The storm has thrown me off the road at times. The emotional weather has exhausted and bewildered me. Much of the experience was unpleasant, but also immensely satisfying. The storm has stripped away layers of debris and watered the seeds of what is good within me.

In the tumult of the last several years, I thought I was making good progress in my spiritual life. I thought I knew who I was. I thought I knew how to live in the world with some degree of emotional safety. I thought I knew where God was leading me. I thought I had a strategy for accomplishing the goals I envisioned. I thought I was filling needs around the church.  The thing is, there are an awful lot of “Is” in this paragraph. As well-intended as I was and as much reflection as I did, I still had a hard time letting God set the agenda and plan the strategy. Somehow, I thought He was relying on me to do all that. I certainly did not want to let Him down!

Lately, I have been concentrating on listening for God and assuming He will direct me rather than fretting over figuring out what He wants me to do. That means trusting that He has given me and will continue to give me whatever I need in the way of directions and tools to do what He wants me to do. I do not always get it right. I often end up having to intentionally stop my brain from thrashing around spastically to redirect myself. I say I must stop myself mid-mindspin. It requires me to exercise considerable spiritual discipline to simply keep trying. I think I can say that it is now a habit to be intentional about letting God take the reins. I may not fulfill my intentions all the time, but at least I have them.

A friend of mine who is studying for ordination into the priesthood just delivered a thought-provoking sermon on 1 Corinthians 12:12-31. This lovely bit of Scripture compares the parts of the body with various spiritual gifts contributed by different Christians. She ended her sermon challenging the congregation to think and pray about what gifts we had to contribute to the body of Christ. She asked, “What part of Christ’s body are you?”

I take these things to heart. I spent some time on Sunday afternoon thinking about it. It struck me that, at this time last year, I was feeling a bit like I was the tonsils. I was catching all the infection and bacteria. I was feeling decayed and inflamed. There were a few experiences that functioned as a kind of antibiotic, removing the bacteria du jour in the moment. Still, the spiritual step throat kept recurring. Sometime over the year, God finally decided to remove the tonsils and get rid of that infection more permanently. It was a great feeling to be healed of this burden.

On the other hand, I was left without a purpose. This week I found I needed to rethink my friend’s sermon challenge, “What part of Christ’s body are you?”  I am afraid that I might be the appendix.

I texted my friend and shared with her that I thought I might be the appendix. She vehemently disagreed. She said she saw me as being the heart. I hope she is right. But even if she is not, I think God can do something wonderful- even through an appendix!

What part of Christ’s body are you?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a blessed day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Silver Slippers Of The Smokies

I must be an extremely impressionable soul.

As I have discussed, we recently took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains. While we were there, we visited Dollywood. We also spent a morning shopping in Gatlinburg. I have never been a huge fan of country music. I am not a detractor or anything. I don’t have a systemic hatred of the genre. There are even a few songs that I can identify as favorites of mine. However, country music as a whole never seemed to really resonate with me.

One trip to Dollywood and that changed. I overlayed Tennessee Hill People Culture over my base personality, like one of those “topper” pairs of glasses. The base frames are the same, but there are various “fancy” magnetic covers for those frames that you can purchase individually to change up your look. The core of my personality was still Terri, but I slapped on a set of sparkly, distinctive, “hee hawing” toppers the minute I got out of the car in Tennessee.

I had to stop myself from speaking with a drawl so people would not think I was mocking them. My drawl reflex was not intended to be rude or mocking. I just couldn’t help myself. My delicate ears heard the drawl all around me. My brain somehow managed to translate it and ordered my mouth to respond in kind. It took a lot of intentionality to ignore that command. I spent the entire time we were in Tennessee humming Dolly Parton songs. I even walked around two-stepping with an imaginary partner. I was offended on behalf of the hill people when I looked at goods in “real handmade Smoky Mountain handicraft” stores and saw “Made in China” labels. My GPS got screwed up one morning directing us to the visitor center for the national park. As we slithered our way up a mountain, with no sign of visitors anywhere (actually, no sign of any people at all,) I instinctively knew we were in a “holler” as soon as a saw a couple of rundown houses grouped together and flanked by equally rundown furniture. In an act of solidarity, I left considerable money in jars all over the area asking for help for hurricane relief. I felt really good about it.

The final straw came on our last full day in Tennessee. We were wandering around the shops in Gatlinburg. Uncharacteristically, I was having a challenging time finding stuff to buy. As we passed a shoe store window, a pair of silver sequin ankle boots caught my eye. Now, silver sequin ankle cowgirl boots may be the thing I need least in all the world. However, I could not uncatch my eye. Finally, Max convinced me to go in the store and take a closer look. I went in, hoping to find something about those boots that I hated so I could let go of the whole ludicrous idea that I might actually buy them.

After trying on the display pair in size eight, I loved them. My foot, however, is not a size eight. It seemed especially ridiculous to pay a price upwards of $200 for a pair of shoes that did not fit. Maybe even ridiculous enough to drive the notion from my brain. Max was not to be deterred, however. He asked the sales guy if they had any other sizes. The inventory showed they also had a size seven and a size 7.5.  After some concerted searching, the guy found the size seven, but it was too small. He looked and looked and looked for the size 7.5 before admitting defeat. Feeling like Cinderella leaving without the prince, I tried to find relief at not having to decide whether to spend so much money on such an audacious purchase.

As we were leaving the store, the sales guy found the problem. He explained that the 7.5 boots were the ones in the window. They did not want to sell that pair because one of the boots had one tiny, tiny sequin missing. I never would have known it was there if he had not pointed it out to me. I tried the boot on, and it fit perfectly. The sales guy said he would call the vendor and see if they could send me a new pair in the correct size.

Several hours later, he called me to report that the vendor discontinued the boot. They could not send me a new pair because there were no new pairs. Just as my brain was ordering a dip in endorphins, the sales guy suggested an alternative. After discussing the matter with his manager, they agreed that they would sell me the sample boots with the tiny, tiny, tiny imperfection for about $75 off the sticker price. I thought that was more than fair- especially when Max insisted on buying them for me for Christmas. They are now hidden in a closet here at home, hoping that I will forget about them and be surprised on Christmas. I don’t think that is going to happen.

So, I am soon to be the proud owner of a pair of sparkly silver boots. The only way these make sense is if I am going to become a country western singer or a Rockette. I don’t think either of those things are going to happen either . Still, I can’t wait to wear them!

Have a sparkly day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is your silliest purchase ever? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Florida Woman

As of last week, I have been a Florida resident for ten years. An entire decade of my life. I am having a tough time wrapping my head around that fact. It seems like just a moment or two has passed since Max and I encountered the sudden jolt to our systems of moving and turning our world upside down… and sideways.

Just a second ago, we were preparing to celebrate our first Christmas in the South… without family, without friends, without even a Christmas tree. My mother considered this situation to be the eleventh circle of hell. She sent us presents (even though we celebrated an early Christmas at Thanksgiving, before we left California) because she could not bear the idea that I would have nothing to open on Christmas morning. I was 55 years old. She also had Amazon send me a small, pre-lit Christmas tree. It stood, forlornly, in a corner with no ornaments or any additional decoration amidst the boxes and piles of unpacking still taunting me. I remember bracing myself for that Christmas, expecting to hurt and feel bereft to the bone. It ended up not being so bad. Max and I had been so busy and stressed since the end of November, it felt kind of nice to take a “silent night” or two.

In all, it seems surreal to think that time was ten whole years ago. On the other hand, I can look at all the major life events that have happened since we moved to Florida and wonder if there ever was a life before the one I am living now.

  • I had new, meaningful experiences with my mother that built beautiful memory castles in my mind.
  • I celebrated ten additional anniversaries with Max, maturing and enriching our exquisite relationship. We lived through so many shared experiences and so much mutual vulnerability in our new surroundings.
  • I walked with my mother for 13 months on her end-of-life journey after a catastrophic stroke.
  • Four close family members died.
  • I lived through multiple hurricanes.
  • There was a worldwide pandemic.
  • I released three books.
  • I published 412 blog posts, totaling approximately 452,000 words.
  • I’ve petted, fed, and swam with an entire menagerie of land and sea creatures.
  • I’ve healed from past trauma in a way that I never dreamed possible.
  • I lost and gained weight about 1,468 times, give or take a few hundred.
  • I vacationed approximately twenty times, including visits to places I have never been before- New England, Charleston, Savannah, and Tennessee.
  • I revisited the first home I remember in New York and let my soul live there for a time.
  • I converted to a new Christian denomination.
  • I worked as a chaplain, vestry member, teacher, project coordinator, temporary office worker, meal delivery person, and other service positions in a new church.
  • I made numerous friends who I now call “family.”

Put in this context, the perspective is all cattywampus. The ten years no longer feels like an instant. How could all this have happened in only ten years? No wonder it sometimes feels like I must schedule time just to take a breath! Yes, it has truly been a lifetime since we moved to Florida. I have lived that lifetime thoroughly and well.

Have a valuable day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you feel you have lived your life well and thoroughly since retirement?  How so?  If not, what can you do now to enrich your retirement experience?

Wild Or Mild? Part 2

As our visit to Tennessee continued, I loosened up a little. As touristy and garish as Pigeon Forge is, the Smoky Mountains are definitely a place that markets adventure in the great outdoors. In an attempt to blow a raspberry at the emotional impact of turning 65, I decided I wanted to partake. In my world, having an adventure includes a tour guide, a driver, and a souvenir shop. I’m into carefully controlled adventure and planned spontaneity.

I scheduled two different pink jeep tours. I have never been on a jeep, nor have I ever gone off-roading… at least not intentionally. Both jeep adventures were fantastic. Everything was so beautiful. The trees, the rivers, the waterfalls, and the sunlight dappling the fields created an exquisitely tuned symphony of primitive perfection. We made multiple stops along the way to give us the chance to wander a bit and climb down to creek beds to get a better look. The Great Smoky Mountain National Park is one of those places that expanded my mind to a new level of beauty perception. It happened to me the first time I went to Hawaii and the first time I went to New England. I was so profoundly aware of not realizing somewhere so beautiful could exist until I saw it with my own eyes. The Smokies had the same effect on me. At the end of each tour, the guide took us off-roading on a course specifically designed for thrills and chills and no broken bones.

There was so much exhilaration in walking on unpaved trails, climbing down a slope so the guide could take our picture right next to the river, sliding my feet through fallen leaves, filling my lungs with so much crisply clean air flavored with forest, looking for bears in the trees,  and giggling maniacally when the off-roading experience popped my butt off the seat and into Max’s personal space.  That exhilaration made me feel young, vibrant, carefree, and wild. My mood felt unfettered. My muscles felt loose. My vital signs felt like they clicked right into optimal normal range as soon as we officially entered the park. The adventure created so much superpower in us, we could actually be in two places at once. See the pictures below showing us behind the jeep and at the front of the jeep in the exact same photograph. To be honest, I felt like a bit of a badass.

On the other hand…. I was inept at getting out of the jeep. Getting in was not too much of a problem. I could grab onto a handle and haul myself up into the back. Getting down, however… that was harder. I did not feel steady enough on my feet to dismount the vehicle and find the ground while still remaining upright without holding on to at least one other person’s hand. I am a rather short person, and that ground did seem pretty far away from the back of the jeep. Still, no one else seemed to need life support to get out of the jeep. It was embarrassing.

It was also embarrassing when a visit to an old house shone an even brighter spotlight on my unsteadiness and extreme lack of coordination. There were three steps up to the porch of the house and zero bannisters. Most people visited inside the house. I certainly had that intention. When I came face-to-face with the steps, I wisely realized that I could get up them without a railing but would be stuck there forever until bears ate me or I died of old age because there is no way I was going to be able navigate descending those steps.  It was a humbling feeling for my newly declared badass self.

Another day, we took a trip to Skypark in Gatlinburg. We took a chair lift about 500 feet up the mountain. It was the coolest thing we did on the trip. I had considered ziplining but chickened out. Skypark was my compromise with myself. The view from the ski lift was fantastic and, arguably, I appreciated it much more than I would have at the breakneck speed of a zipline. It still felt pretty wild.

There were a few non-wild moments, however. When we pulled the lap bar down on the chair lift, I did not immediately realize that there was a security support bisecting the center of the main lap bar. Instead of the bar gliding smoothly over both our laps, I somehow managed to bring the security support down directly on my thigh. I was apparently sitting too close to Max and was not in my own lane. I ended up having quite a lovely bruise on my thigh after that. When we reached the end of the ride, I also found that my purse and sweater were hopelessly tangled in the lap bar. It required two quick-moving attendants to extricate me from my accessories and get me safely back on terra firma.

Once we got off the ski lift, I poured on the wild again. We walked across the skybridge- the longest cable bridge in North America, which spans the 400 feet or so from one mountain top to another. The bridge also boasts a 30-foot section where the footpath is not wood or stone or anything that feels solid. Instead, that 30-foot section is made of glass. As you traverse that section of the swaying bridge, you can look beneath your feet and see nothing between you and the ground 500 feet below. Max and I had no issues walking the bridge. We suitably impressed ourselves with our courage when we made it #PassTheGlass. I even conquered the swaying and managed to stay on my feet. Handrails, even when made of rope and cable, are my friends.

Now that the vacation is over and I have had time to reflect, I must admit that my badass self was maybe not quite as edgy as I first believed. I look back at all my adventures and feel enormously proud of myself. To be honest, I don’t think I saw any other short, pudgy, 65-year-old women braving jeeps, ski lifts, and swaying glass bridges 500 feet off the ground. Still, it is humbling to think of my wobbly dismounting from the jeeps and clutzy exit from the ski lift. It is also only fair to go back to my original point, which is that my adventures were carefully controlled, and my spontaneity was planned. So, what is your verdict? Wild or mild? I think I’m going with wild AND mild!

What do think?  Am I wild or mild?  Is my ass bad or good?  Please share your perspective by leaving a comment.  In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a wild day!

Terri/Dorry😊

#PassTheGlass

Wild Or Mild? Part 1

Recently, we took a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. With uncharacteristically excellent timing, we managed to plan the trip between two tantruming hurricanes. I was driving from our home in central Florida to our ultimate destination- a distance of over six hundred miles, each way. Previously, the furthest I’d ever driven was about 380 miles to Charleston. I had some trepidation about upping my motoring game that much. I know plenty of people who regularly make 600-mile trips in one day, but I ain’t one of them. To be honest, I was not convinced that I would even have the stamina to do two back-to-back driving days of three hundred miles each, but I told myself to get a grip, put on my big girl panties, and embrace the wheel. After all, God made cruise control for a reason. As a sop to my anxiety, I did decide to stop overnight in Macon, Georgia instead of driving the whole distance in one day.

At the beginning of the trip, I began to think that I had become an adventurer in my old age. I felt super comfortable the first day driving. I was puffed and chuffed about my performance. I felt very peppy and full of myself when we pulled into the Homewood Suites for our overnight respite. I was really feeling my oats. I felt confident enough to suggest to Max that we might be able to cancel our overnight hotel reservation on the way back, but I wanted to see how I felt after Driving Day Two.

Waiting until after Driving Day Two to make that decision was one of my wiser moves. The next day was much more difficult. As we inched our way through Atlanta traffic, I found out that fifty miles of northern Georgia is not equivalent to fifty miles of northern Florida. Time, as well as the traffic, stood still. Just when things started flowing more rapidly, we were exiting the freeway to approach Sevierville, where we were staying.

I should have been suspicious. The owners of the Airbnb we were renting told us that the house was about six miles from Dollywood and six miles from Gatlinburg. That information did seem to coincide with what Mapquest and the GPS (why only rely on a belt when you can have BOTH a belt and suspenders?) were showing me. However, the GPS was saying it was going to take half an hour to get to the property. This turned out to be accurate. The traffic on the main drag from the freeway to the turn-off to our house sludged its way across the miles even slower than the traffic in Atlanta. I could not believe the number of cars and the number of pedestrians walking along the Parkway.

The slow traffic did give me sufficient time to really take in the sights on the Parkway. How would I describe the scenery in Pigeon Forge? The first word that comes to mind for me is tacky. Not that tacky is necessarily a terrible thing in my book- my favorite color is glitter, and I leave a little pixie dust wherever I go. The Parkway was overstimulating even for me, though.

There was a smorgasbord of souvenir shops, restaurants, miniature golf courses, mountain coaster parks, more souvenir shops, escape rooms, bars, ice cream parlors, and even more souvenir shops. Oh, and did I mention souvenir shops? The souvenir shops touted “hand-crafted” Smoky Mountains products. I later discovered that the products might have been “hand-crafted,” but that crafting was done in China. The mention of “Smoky Mountain products” apparently referred only to the fact that they had “Smoky Mountains” printed on them.

The buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder like people standing in an overcrowded elevator. It even felt like the buildings were hunching their shoulders to avoid touching each other, so aware of the lack of personal space. They were huge, painted in bright colors that had faded over time and weather. Much of the architecture was campy and bizarre. Every building was clearly competing to catch the eye. One souvenir shop had a huge alligator covering the middle third of the façade. That alligator was as wide as my entire house. It wasn’t even just painted on- the front of the building was molded into the shape of the alligator. I did not even know they had alligators in Tennessee. Another building had a huge bear, roughly equivalent to the height of the building, spouting from the roof. There was a large wax museum that included a building in the shape of a castle bigger than any Disney royal residence. The main building was shaped like the Empire State Building, complete with King Kong hanging on its side. That King Kong sculpture had to be four stories tall.

As we turned off the Parkway, the roads got narrower and curvier. Thankfully, they also got less populated. As we meandered into the outskirts of the city, I began wondering if we were on the right track because there was not much around except trees. Max began to express concern emphatically that we were out in the boondocks and were overly isolated.

As we reached the last mile of our trek, the concern level elevated. As did the road. I knew I was renting a “mountain cabin,” but I guess I didn’t realize just how much of a mountain I was getting. After living in Florida- the flattest state in the union- for nearly ten years, I’ve apparently forgotten what mountains really look like. I’ve also forgotten what the “roads” up the mountains feel like. I navigated one hairpin turn after another up a steep 2-way road that was only wide enough for about one and a quarter cars. There were no guard rails on either side, so a misstep would mean plunging to our death in the valley below or ramming into the wall of a mountain.

One of the reasons I chose this location is that it sounded like it was part of a community, which felt safer than being out in the wilderness completely alone. The cottage was part of a community, but there were only three or four houses built together before the road curved off into some new curlicue. Even once we located the community, finding our cottage was a challenge. Part of that challenge involved making several wrong guesses. This required driving up multiple blind steep hills and some death-defying U-turns. It also required me to drive in Reverse, which is always death-defying in my case.

When we finally got to the house, I was tired, hungry, anxious, and felt like there was a steel bar between my shoulders. I was also pretty testy. The house was very nice, though. The view was lovely. It was cozy and quiet. There were a couple of neighbors, which made the drive seem less terrifying. After all, if the neighbors could navigate that road on a regular basis, surely I could do it for a few days.

My adventure in the Smoky Mountains certainly started in the “wild” category. Between changing lanes on the freeway through Atlanta without having any idea of what lane I needed to be in, traveling through the Pigeon Forge fever dream of a landscape, and navigating the mini-road up to the cottage, I felt quite the thrill-seeker. I even ventured out back into town to get some dinner, which necessitated coming back up that mountain after dark. The mild part? We cancelled any thought we had of evening entertainment on this vacation. After making that trip in the dark, I decided discretion is the better part of valor. Besides, what is a vacation without several hours of YouTube videos each evening?

Have an adventurous day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What is the most adventurous trip you have ever taken? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri Years

You know how they say that one dog year equals seven human years? I understand that this axiom is not particularly accurate. Calculating a dog’s aging process is more complicated than that. It seems, with a dog, a year is not a year is not a year. Some years are more equal than others.

I think the same is true with humans. At least, it is for me. I am not talking about the various and sundry health issues that seem to jump out from behind a curtain and gobble me up rather than nibble away at me gradually over time. If I am honest, those health matters do creep up over time.  The only thing sudden about them is my sudden inability to live in denial about them.   The more striking example of some years being more aging than other, seems to be my appearance.

Now, most of you know that I have never been any great shakes to look at. The one good thing I could say about my appearance is that I floated through year after year without seeming to change much. I probably spent 15-20 years looking almost exactly the same. We sometimes look at old pictures and it is difficult to date them by my appearance. If we look at old Thanksgiving photos, there is really no way to tell if we are looking at Terri 2002 or Terri 2012. In the last three years, though, I’d say that aging has been making up for lost time. The last year, especially, seems to have been hard on my constitution. I just compared some recent pictures to ones from the same event last year. I am now depressed.

I noticed a year or so ago that my jawline was starting to sink. And, believe me, I cannot afford to give up any space between my face and my shoulders. My father always called me the neckless wonder, given the fact that my chin nearly touched my boobs even when I was young. Now, it is a complete mystery whether or not I do have any neck at all because I have sagging jowls. My skin used to be oily and acne prone, but at least it glowed. It is now a peculiar shade of dull. I never used to have dark circles under my eyes. I now look like I am wearing glasses even when I am not wearing glasses. I don’t even have bags anymore. The indentations under my eyes are now twin steamer trunks. I could be sailing to Europe on the QEII with this much luggage. My hair looks even more tired than I feel. The grey roots seem to appear overnight about two and a half weeks after a trip to salon. It grows out, rather than down. As I have tried to embrace my curls, I find myself looking increasingly like a brunette Bozo the Clown… or like there is a family of cats living on my head somewhere in the chaos.

Maybe I am just having a bad self-image day. Maybe I am just overcritical of my appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time. Even given that I can be somewhat delusional about my looks- or at least some people say so- I cannot help but believe that some years age me faster than others.

I do want to be fair. I did have those 15-20 years of time standing kind of still. I suppose it was bound to catch up with me someday. I am grateful for the years of looking young. My self-image was no better in those days. In fact, it was a good deal worse. I am not sure I could have handled feeling ugly AND old all the time. Over the past several years, I have been working hard to rewire my brain. I can get through a day or a week or even a month without feeling ugly and repulsive. When I do feel ugly and repulsive, it is a mood or a moment, not a state of being.

Despite the progress I have made in seeing and appreciating myself as I actually am- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually- my appearance has aged way more than one year in this past year. I accept that, presuming I don’t get run over by a bus, it is likely that I will encounter this phenomenon of “ultra-aging” more frequently in the next years. On the other hand, I am happier and more at peace than I ever have been in my life. I am gentler with myself and others. I am more comfortable living my life as it comes. I am more excited about growth. I am more trusting of God.

I guess I can put up with cheeks that are closer to my esophagus than my eyeballs, skin the color of old tissue paper, hair that looks like cats live in it, and luggage for a transatlantic voyage under my eyes if the pay-off is self-value and joy. 

This is going to take some getting used to. In the meantime, I definitely think I am going to stop going anywhere near a camera without make-up!

Have a youthful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Do you think that some years age you more than others? How do you come to terms with the changes age makes to your appearance? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Follow The Bouncing Birthday

I turned 65 on Monday. It didn’t suck.

Some of you know that this birthday was kicking me with a high wattage emotional jolt. Becoming officially “old” according to the United States government caused me to re-evaluate the ways I think about myself. I’m usually  the youngest in the room. I’ve always had a rather child-like persona. I see myself as young. Clearly, by sending me a Medicare card, the United States government is suggesting that I might be delusional in that perception.

Well, I re-evaluated but have decided that the United States government is wrong in its perception of me, and I am right. I am me, with all my quirks and oddities, all my failures and frailties, all my childishness and hyper-responsibility, all my creativity and stability, and all my playfulness and wisdom. In short, I am the wildly wonderful, bizarre buffet of attributes that God combined with inscrutable intentionality to design who He wanted me to be. That design is ageless. In God’s time, I am young… and always will be.

My birthday celebrations certainly make a strong case that the number of years of my age does not define the youth of my soul.

Things started strong with a birthday box I received from my precious sister by selection in California, Judy. The box contained a variety of gifts that spoke to my value in the world. One of these small gifts that housed great value was a small sign that proclaimed that I have been loved for 65 years (and every variant possible of “65 years.”) Another was a little zippered pouch that proclaims that I have been making the world a better place since 1959. Such simple thoughts, but they packed such an emotional wallop. They forced me to tap into my spirit and find a place that values myself in these ways. It is wonderful that my Judy has these sentiments, and it is even more wonderful that she reminds me that I have them deep inside me, as well, and it is important to honor them.

I told you I had plans to visit a ranch called Beautiful Creatures Animal Sanctuary but was concerned that Hurricane Helene would dispose of those plans. Fortunately, the weather cooperated, and we spent a FABULOUS day with Candice at the ranch. I fed Dolly the sloth. I took the mini-horse Casper for a walk. I played with Betty the porcupine. Mountjac deer Prongs and Clary gave me kisses. I gave toddler kangaroo Hopper his bottle. I served dead meal worms to rambunctious lemurs. I wrapped myself in a corn snake. I hugged a hedgehog. I fell in love with a French bulldog puppy named Hiram. His custodians referred to him as “Darryl,” but I have it directly from him that his name is Hiram. There was so much more that I could say. This brief paragraph can’t even begin to describe the surprises and delights!

Candice, one of the owners of the ranch and our guide for the day, was another reason my experience was so joyful. She made me feel so special. It is not like me to take precedence over other people. I like being generous and doing things for other people. It is very unlike me to “go first” or be the one to ask for an opportunity if it means someone else won’t get one. Candice went out of her way to make the day all about me. She made it extremely easy for me to be “selfish” on my special day. Maya Angelou said that “People will forget what you do, but they will always remember how you made them feel.”  Candice made me feel awesome.

On Sunday, my friend and pastor preached a sermon that seemed to be especially for me. It was one of those sermons that bore some careful holes into my heart so God could reach me at a deeper level than usual. It felt like a warm, encouraging validation of worth. I am not so self-absorbed to think that the sermon was all about me. I am sure it spoke to many others in the pews as well. I don’t even know that I entered into the inspiration phase of the sermon, but I am so thankful that I could receive it in the way that I did.

On Sunday and Monday, friends and family showered me with birthday wishes. One friend stopped by with flowers and a balloon. On Monday morning, I slept until 9:00am. Since I usually crave sleep the way a crack addict craves cocaine, this was a fantastic way to start my actual birthday. When Max gave me my card, he commented, “I am so happy you are the love of my life.”  My heart just melted like the ice cream with the birthday cake that someone left on the counter.

Much to his relief (he has been trying to get me to open gifts for months now), I finally broke into the presents. I was delighted because I had forgotten every single one of them. Max tends to buy my presents at random times during the year and only when I am around to concur with his choices. This means that there is often a backlog of gifts. If the backlog gets long enough, I forget what we chose. It is a win-win scenario. Max does not need to stress about perhaps buying something I won’t like, and I get a surprise because my memory is not that long.

 Max and I went to Orlando for a birthday dinner at BJ’s Brewhouse, which was delicious. Finally, just when I thought the birthday was basically over, the doorbell rang. When my mother was alive, I used to buy her a gift every year on my birthday. I figured she did all the work. All I did was show up. This year, this very special birthday, I ordered a floral arrangement of white roses (my mother’s favorite flower) and pale peachy pink roses (my favorite flower. It is a fitting celebration of both of us and the path that she set us on 65 years ago.

On Tuesday, there was a bit more bounce left in the birthday ball. At our Alpha course session, there was birthday cake and ice cream to celebrate me and my dear friend who partners with me in producing Alpha. Her birthday is today, so please everyone repeat after me….”HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABS!”

I don’t know how a girl could feel anything but loved and valued and joyful with family (by birth and selection) and friends like mine. I am a very, very blessed lady.

Please remind me of this the next time I fall into a pit of darkness!

Have a celebratory day!

Terri/Dorry 🙂

What is your favorite birthday memory? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Sog And Sag

It is late September, and this summer is slinking by like a sloth stuck in saran wrap. I am tired of it. Granted, I was tired of it in May. At least in May, I could tell myself that the miserableness of the atmosphere was simply summer and would pass in time. I have reached that point in the sog season now where I firmly believe I will never be cool again. For the rest of my natural life (which may end in a tragic air-drowning accident), my body will continue to stick to every surface imaginable. A layer of sweat and humidity will glue every random object that I touch to my body. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t feel clean. I don’t feel cute. Actually, most of the time, I feel disgusting.   And it is never going to end. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I know this is a permanent condition.

Friends of mine spent part of this summer in Scandinavia. They kept posting pictures of the Arctic Circle, reindeer, huskie farms, and people wearing long pants and sweaters. Personally, I think it is sadistic. I was in possession of her plants, watering them while she was away. They required three or four kettles of water a day to keep them upright. All those pictures of frost-friendly Scandinavia  caused me to contemplate plant-icide in retaliation.

The Florida summer rain is getting to me, too. Usually, it rains heavily for a fairly short time period each day, maybe a couple of times a day. However, it is also hurricane season. When I first moved to Florida, I learned that it can rain any day of the year in Florida and sometimes it does. I finally got to the point where I did not despair and suddenly change plans when a forecast several days in the future called for rain. First, those forecasts for a “future” beyond three hours from now are completely unreliable. … Just because tomorrow’s forecast says it will rain, one shouldn’t contemplate changing plans. It is very likely that, when one checks the weather by hour the next morning, there is a good chance rain will no longer be part of the mix- and, if it is, it will likely be pretty self-contained in a one-hour block of time.

This year has been different, however. We have had activities rain out because the weather did not cooperate. In fact, that is why I am writing a second summer rant about the weather. Normally, I limit myself to one whiny post a year about how annoyingly oppressive and completely bizarre the weather is in Florida. This year, however, something has happened that really must be addressed.

My birthday. Of course, I have one every year, but this September 30th is my 65th birthday. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this one seems fairly momentous. One could argue that, along with the 18th and 21st birthday, 65 is one of the most significant milestone birthdays in a person’s life. Many people retire at 65. Medicare kicks in at 65, suggesting that the United States government proclaims one officially “elderly” at 65. Typically, I have always been the youngest in my friend group and in the workplace. Even though I retired nearly 10 years ago, I have been able to avoid thinking of myself as “old” because of context. Most of the people I knew were older. However, that is changing. Every year, there is a new influx of people newly retiring into my community from points north. There is no doubt about it. There are now numerous people around me who are younger than I am. That, along with the United States of America seal of approval on my “elderly” status, has sent my brain careening into “old” with all the subtlety and finesse of electroshock therapy.

Anticipating that this was going to be a tough transition for me and also wanting to celebrate myself on this landmark day, I have been thinking for months about what to do  to mark the occasion. I particularly planned vacation around my birthday this year. The past couple of years, we have been traveling to or from a vacation on my actual birthday. I wanted 65 to be special and I wanted to focus all my energy on my birthday on celebrating me. I had several ideas, but nothing was really singing my name. Finally, I found something that had me written all over it. I planned a trip to an animal sanctuary ranch about an hour away from home. As part of the experience, I planned to interact with a sloth, pet a hedgehog, and take a miniature horse for a walk. There was a catch. The owners were planning to be out of town beginning on my actual birthday. If I wanted to do all the elements of the experience, I would have to visit on the Saturday before my birthday. This was not my ideal plan, but I finally decided to do it.

Our visit is planned for this Saturday. Yesterday, the governor of Florida declared a state of emergency because of Hurricane Helene’s approach. She is expected to make landfall on Thursday. The storm is extremely slow-moving and may still be raging on Saturday. Even if Helene has passed by Saturday, it is likely that she will leave a wide field of damage in her wake. It seems more than likely that I will not be slothing or hedgehogging or mini horsing around on Saturday. And I blame Florida weather for this travesty.

Of course, this is not a giant problem. I am blessed that Helene will probably not cause much damage in my neighborhood (knock on wood) and safety is the main thing in a hurricane. It seems very callous to even complain about my birthday celebration when people will be afraid for their lives. Even people in Helene’s path who are physically safe will be way more inconvenienced than I will be. Losing power is a bit more tragic than losing the opportunity to walk a miniature horse. I am still sad that the storm may keep me from having the birthday celebration I planned. And really peeved at the weather. I mean, is it not enough that I am turning “old and saggy?” Do I really have to be soggy, too?

Have a storm-free day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Have you ever had your plans for a “special” birthday derailed? How did you end up celebrating? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.