Archives for March 2020

It all started with the gift of a Fitbit my partner received from his children for Christmas. Wearing his device, he began avidly tracking his daily steps and his nightly sleep patterns. I decided to get one too, to help shake off the pounds I added to my frame over the holidays, and to get the incentives offered by my Medicare Advantage plan. I chose an off-brand smartwatch and eagerly awaited its arrival.

Once I figured out how to download the app, get the watch linked and synched, and strapped to my wrist, I was in business. However, I quickly discovered that reaching the recommended 10,000 steps per day is much harder than it seems. I walked, I ran, I jumped up and down, and jogged around the apartment. I checked my progress constantly. I discovered in the grocery store that my steps didn’t count if I held onto a cart, so I walked through the store pushing the cart with one hand, while swinging the other arm with conscious effort. Did anyone notice the crazy lady moving oddly over and over up and down the aisles? I didn’t care.

And it wasn’t just the steps that quickly became an all-consuming obsession. My device tracks my pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, calories burned, and more. With the pressure of my finger on the device, I was measuring my vitals 20 times, at least, per day. And the sleep cycles. Instead of asking each other how we slept as we lazily sipped our morning coffee, we were instead checking and comparing our stats, and our sleep scores. Instead of comparing dreams, we were researching whether the amount of REM sleep our devices reported was the right amount for optimal health.

Like any addiction, it’s when it starts interfering with your job, your relationships, or some other aspect of daily functioning that it’s time to take note. I was running in place really fast to wrap up my daily steps to the point where I had cramps in my calves the next day. I was thinking at night as I rolled over and couldn’t get back to sleep that my score wouldn’t be optimal. I think these devices are helpful as a reminder to move every day and to pay attention to our health. But for now, I am removing mine and just going for a walk outside in the fresh air.

Lee Stevens is a mostly wise elder and joyful writer in Hendersonville, NC

Anyone been on Main Street lately? Anyone still have a Main Street where they live? Okay, let’s say it’s not called Main Street. Let’s just say it’s the main drag in town. You know, the place where all the stores are/were. Maybe it’s been a bit decimated by the whole online shopping/Amazon thing, but there must be a few stores left in town.

The news only gets worse on this street. Most of the merchants are baby boomers. About 2.4 million small businesses in this country are owned by boomers and they employ over 25 million people. A lot of these owners are at a crossroads. They want to retire but there’s no one to pass the business off to and not a lot of potential buyers.

So what. You can get everything you need from Amazon, right? True, but aren’t we going to miss being able to pick up the pipe wrench to see how hefty it is? Won’t you miss pushing hangers of blouses across the rack to find something perfect to wear that night? Isn’t it relaxing to browse the aisles of a good bookstore to find a book that’s new or that you want to read again?

I’m the offspring of a merchant. I watched how hard my father worked to make a living and how hard he tried to offer great service and value. As much as I respected his upstanding reputation in our small town, I knew I didn’t want to be in the line of succession. I ended up working in the public relations field but that didn’t stop me from making the idiotic decision to open up a small retail venture. The first lesson I learned was that I was the least expensive employee that the business had. That is I was unpaid.

Retail is tough. You’re on your feet all day, you have to deal with rude people while still smiling, and the profit margins are thin. Like my father, the baby boomers who own these small businesses would strongly urge their children not to take over the business, and instead pursue a professional career.

Where does that leave Main Street? It’s a You-Won’t-Miss-Us-Til-We’re-Gone situation. Someday soon, there are going to be a lot of vacant storefronts there. Maybe we’ll be satisfied with ordering something and getting it delivered by drone within the hour, but it just won’t be the same as walking up and down the aisles of creaking hardwood floors to appreciate the highly curated selection of goods someone has worked hard to create.

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.

It’s 5:00pm on a Tuesday in January when I gather with two women friends for an evening out. We are headed to Asheville, 20 miles away, for dinner and an Indigo Girls concert. We’ve had some back and forth emails about who will drive, since we don’t see as well driving at night anymore, and discussions of which restaurant to eat at and where to park. All in our 60’s, the youngest agrees to drive and we set off. Once there, parking is easier than we feared, but the restaurant we had decided on isn’t there anymore. We walk back and forth in the cold for a few minutes, thinking we might be mistaken, then settle on a small Italian place.

The concert doesn’t start until 8:00, an impossibly late start time these days, but we are stepping outside our usual routine for this special night of music. For dinner, we share calamari, grape leaves, and crab cakes. We toast each other and talk of love, loss, loneliness. What will people think, one of us asks, if I start dating again? And my kids, who adored their father, what will they think? It’s okay, we tell her, just go slow. Be good to yourself.

We bundle up and head back out in the cold for the short walk to the venue. The anticipation is electric as people enter the auditorium and take their seats. I forgot what this is like – live music, the energy of the crowd. While I am usually at home in my pajamas reading a novel at this time, the groundswell of noise catches me up in its wave when the Indigo Girls take the stage and strike their perfect harmonies. At first, the three of us just watch and listen to the diehard fans sing along and dance; toward the end we are taking part as best we can. We stand up, we move around a bit. I wait to recognize a song I can sing along with, and finally, at the end of the encore, they start Closer to Fine. At last, we can catch the words and join in the chorus. Happy, we stream with everyone back out into the winter night. Laughing, we take a selfie outside to prove we were there. Heading home, we plan our next adventure. We don’t have to say, but we know we are indeed closer to fine.

Lee Stevens is a joyful writer and mostly wise elder in Hendersonville, NC