Archives for January 2020

More people-watching yesterday. I went out as a single and got paired up with a threesome – a married couple and their friend. The married couple appeared to have a large age difference. It’s hard to tell, but he looked to be about 20 or 30 years older than her.

I’ve played with them before, and I nicknamed them the love birds. Every other word is babe this, babe that. They walk off the green holding hands. I know … how awful … a loving couple having fun together. Imagine! I guess I’m a little more buttoned up when it comes to public displays of affection.

Aside from all my judgmental observations, they are quite nice to play with. Interestingly, they don’t putt anything out. One putt, and if it doesn’t go in, they pick up the ball. I have no idea how they score, and I’m guessing they don’t care, which is kind of cool. I wish I were that laid back. The other thing is he stands behind her on nearly every shot and gives “feedback” on her swing. I’d kill him, but that’s me.

I was busy trying to play my game and didn’t give them much thought until the drive home. I was thinking love has no age limit. I don’t know the backstory, so I started imagining various scenarios.

What if she had been dying in the hospital, and he was her doctor? He saved her and taught her to play golf so they could live happily every after. Or perhaps she was a victim of human trafficking, and he was the private detective who found her and saved her from a life of ruin. I guess I had that whole Pretty Woman thing in my head. She could have been the one who rescued him from an otherwise miserable life. Or maybe they met on the golf course a month ago and haven’t fallen out of love yet.

Then I thought, maybe she just looks young. Maybe they’ve been married forever and have a passel of children and grandchildren. Of course, none of this is any of my business, and in the grand scheme of things, I don’t care. I just like to fill my head with idle speculation about other people’s lives. It’s actually an improvement over the rest of the voices in my head.

They say golf can be a metaphor for life. Certainly, I’ve encountered some annoying people on and off the golf course, but I’m learning to appreciate the characters out there, and I am all the better for it.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

Poised on the threshold of Old Age, I teeter precariously. Doctors say balance is the first thing to go, that we must build up our core to counteract the dizzying effects of aging . . .

If I keep upright, I risk repeating the actions and reactions I have practiced so well these last thirty years: taking the trains, dodging commuters and tourists and traffic on the busy Manhattan streets, securing the lid tightly on my sip-as-you-go decaf latte, stepping to the same 9 to 5 dance music, uttering the tried-and-true words of comfort, scratching my brain to come up with yet another enriching employee event, reconfiguring the benefit package to gain a few points of improvement. I risk losing it when fellow workers devolve into pettiness, narrowness of perspective, meanness. I’ve heard it all before. My brain will slow down to a canter and go on automatic for a spell.

Suppose I tip backwards, will I ever get up again? My friend, Sherry, insists if we retire, the next waystation is Death! I’ll be condemned to sit on my haunches and helpless, observe the crumbling of my external skeleton, the ominous sounds of my infrastructure dissolving. Creaking joints, bones leeching calcium, misaligned sockets. Laziness may overcome schedules, food and other forms of self-indulgence take on more meaning than they are entitled to have. Getting and spending. Spending and more getting. My life may be defined by a trip to the grocery store, a walk around the block, a perch on the window sill? Will I manage to sit back and take it easy, waiting. . . until the dying of the light?

As the years advance if I manage to stand upright and in place, what will sustain me? Certainly not the sad ruminations about certain family members who have fallen on bad times, friends who disappoint, strangers who look right past me.

My inclination is to lean slightly forward, advance a step of two, more calmly and deliberately than I’m used to but nevertheless oriented in the right direction. The more steps I take, the more confidence I will have. I can once again be Janet the explorer, not certain of my destination, but savvy enough to know the road runs not straight but forks into many separate paths. And if I fall on my face, what have I lost? I just need to find friends to accompany me on my quest.

Janet Garber lives in Somers, NY and is still on her feet.

There’s more talk than ever in the workplace about tapping the baby boomer knowledge base before they are out the door. Smart companies and organizations began this process years ago, but now the leading edge of the boomer generation is getting serious about leaving the workplace for good. Okay, maybe they will take part-time jobs as crossing guards just to say active, but they will be saying so long to sophisticated careers.

The chasm between the oldest and youngest workers, that is boomers and millennials, is fifty years. 50! Bridging a gap that large is no easy feat but smart organizations have been doing this for a while now and have developed some useful techniques.

It starts with what some call Tribal Knowledge Transfer. Simply put, you get the boomers to tell the millennials all their secrets and tips. Most of it can be done with mentoring, but there will not always be a grey head to talk to. To address that issue, organizations are tapping older workers’ knowledge base and putting it down in writing.

Reverse Mentoring is another technique that taps the knowledge base of millennials and engages them with boomers in a way that builds respect across the generational divide. Putting the generations together in the same room allows for mindsets to rub off on each other. The reverence for work that boomers have can influence millennials, while millennial reverence for a work-life balance can rub off on boomers. Everyone wins.

The third strategy is Building Resiliency and that has almost nothing to do with boomers other than the hope that their loyalty to the career rubs off on millennials who are known for their high rates of turnover. Organizations that can eke out more than a one or two-year commitment from millennial employees are helping to boost their productivity.

Intergenerational Communication is another piece of the puzzle. A diverse generational mix within the organization is going to make it a lot easier to communicate the organization’s goals or product benefits.

Bridges are not easy to build, especially with a span of fifty years. But those organizations that put in the work to make it happen are the organizations that may still be around in fifty years, when the boomers are long gone.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

We were about half-way to the winery when the front right tire blew. The roads out there are relatively narrow, but Dale was able to find a wide spot on the side. Still, the car was not level, its right side tilted down slightly on the gravel ditch, and I didn’t like anything about this situation.

I asked Dale if he wanted me to call Triple A, and he said yes. Smart! I dialed the number and never spoke to a human. They texted me a link to a map that showed estimated arrival time in an hour. That’s when Dale decided smart wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The sun was blazing, and I sat in the ditch on matting we pulled from the car to access the spare tire, which is actually one of those weenie wheels. Dale wasn’t going to wait an hour when he could do it himself. This from the guy who is nursing a bad back. I sat quietly on my mat, sweating and brooding.

Dale got the jack in place and was able to raise the front just enough. He was struggling with lug nuts, when I saw the jack slip. I said, I know you don’t like me to comment, but you should be aware the jack is not stable, and it seems to me the car could fall on you.

Later, as we argued about what happened, I would apologize for trying to keep him alive. My bad.

He did listen to my report on the instability of the jack and stopped to reassess and maybe to get his breath back from the lug nut effort. Just as Dale started tinkering with the jack, a strapping young man in a pickup truck stopped to help.

It wasn’t until later in the evening that we began to deconstruct the events. I originally blamed Dale for the whole thing, principally because I had to deal with the Triple A drama while he played around with the tire. However, I realized mid-way through the argument I was equally culpable.

We talked about having control issues associated with retirement, work or lack thereof. We’re getting better at talking about it, and that’s progress. I like to think we both learned something about flat tires or possibly life, although I suspect I learned to say, “I’m calling Triple A.” I suspect he learned to say, “Oh, lug nuts, I had a little trouble last time, but I got this.”

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

First thought was to minimize the possibilities. It was just a little chest pain, nothing to be concerned about. It will go away. Still, I couldn’t fall asleep, either because of the chest pain or the angst about the chest pain. I crept down stairs to scan the book shelf for one of those health books with all the answers. If nothing else, it might tell me how long to wait before calling 911.

Self-analytics are not the best way to analyze a situation like this, there is too much room for rationalization. If the pain is this, then that means that. I followed all arrows to all conclusions that seemed related and none of them ended with a red box saying, “Call 911.” Comforted, I went back to bed. Morning came, the pain remained. I called my doctor’s office. Going over my symptoms on the phone they thought I should come in for a look. Thankfully they didn’t think I needed the emergency room—yet.

They measured my height, blood pressure, pulse and temperature. All was normal. Then they suggested an EKG. My shirt came off and the nurse began attaching electrodes to my chest. As I laid on my back, helpless, exposed, talking but not really saying what was on my mind, I began planning my memorial service. Electrodes on my chest is way out of normal. I am not supposed to be that vulnerable.

Am I Superman? No. Do I see myself as Invincible? Absolutely!

Electrodes, stress tests, chest pains, those are for other people. I’m going to burn bright and healthy forever. There simply was no other option under consideration. How do you drive thoughts confidently into tomorrow while lying half naked on your back with electrodes firmly attached to your chest that will measure the prospects for your future? You don’t. You just lie there and wait and hope and pray and stare at the silent ceiling until it is all over. This part of getting older I have completely refused to accept.

Recently I had to renew my driver’s license. There was a box about hair color–I put in brown/grey. But the person at the desk handed it back to me, “You have to choose one.” She said. What if I always wear a hat? Reality can hurt. “Used to be,” doesn’t count for hair color identification.

The doctor came in with the EKG results and simply said, “Your heart is fine.” As we talked, he affirmed the theory I had considered. I had been working just a little too much in awkward positions that can stretch muscles in unexpected ways. Especially as you get older.

Healthy? Yes. Younger? Especially as you get older. It may say gray on my driver’s license, but I know a fuller story.

John Gfroerer owns a video production company in Concord, New Hampshire www.accompanyvideo.com