Archives for March 2023

My son nagged me to join a gym for a long time. Retirement nullified all my excuses for not going (such as inconvenient scheduling) that had proven trustworthy allies over the years.

Two weeks into the blissful state of retirement, the perfect opportunity to try a gym for the first time presented itself in the form of a Groupon offering a discounted one-month membership to the swanky Capital Athletic Club in downtown Sacramento. Hearing about this offer from a 20-something neighbor who was availing herself of the club’s many charms, I mentioned it to my Groupon-fanatic husband, and the next thing you know, I was filling out membership forms.

When you’ve been the oldest person in your office for years – decades older than your bosses – it shouldn’t feel weird to join a gym full of youthful individuals emphasizing their ripped-ness with skin-tight body suits, should it? Well, should it?

Maybe you’re old enough, I tell myself, to rise above the petty concerns of vanity. Forget how you look in your new Target workout pants, tight enough to hopefully contain and compress your accumulated flab and cellulite. No one’s looking at you. Throw yourself into a fitness regime, hoping to control that high blood-pressure and improve your core strength and balance.

I have tried several classes, including “Slow Stretch”, “Mat Pilates”, “Gentle Yoga”, and “Pilates on Ball.” (Yes, I am sore – sometimes super sore — after each of them. Thank you for asking.) I have steered clear of anything implying agony, such as “Abs Blast” or any class with the word “Power” in the title.

I swam a few laps one beautiful day in the outdoor pool and have calmed my post-class aching muscles in the (clothing optional) jacuzzi in the women’s locker room

I have avoided the weight room and the acre of torturous-looking machines. I did have a one-hour consultation with a fitness trainer (part of the Groupon deal) yesterday who concluded – possibly with an eye toward liability issues — that I should stay off the machines (whew!) She said I should satisfy myself, for the moment at least, with bench pressing 5-pound weights in various ways. This is good advice, I think. After so many years as a desk jockey, I don’t want to kill myself in my first month getting fit at the gym.

Susan Wolbarst lives in Gualala, CA

Everyone is talking about Artificial Intelligence. I like to think that much of the grey matter in my brain is highly artificial, but they are talking about programs such as ChatGPT. Here you have a program that can compose music, write a play or a fairy tale, answer test questions, and even write poetry or song lyrics.

Yeah sure, but can it dance?

Seriously. Proponents of A.I. believe it will be a great asset for outsourcing the scutwork that has to be done every day. It’s already ubiquitous in such applications as Siri and Alexa, web ads, drones, facial recognition, spam filtering, translation apps, and self-driving cars. So what’s the big deal?

The dealbreaker for me is that we may end up with a lot of stuff that has no soul or sense of humor, and yet people will ooh and ah over the marvel of the technology. As a writer, my most valued commodity is my voice. When I discovered that I had a distinctive voice, it was one of the bigger aha! moments in my life. Whether it’s a good voice or bad voice may be up for debate, but I know that it’s what makes my prose unique. How can or will ChatGPT match that?

Will anyone be raving about how A.I. is so creative and imaginative? I doubt it. Humans do that. Everyday. Have been doing it for centuries. Whether it’s a painting, a play or a novel, if you remove the voice or the creative seed, what are you really left with? Answer: Something artificial. Instead of a seed you may only have the pits.

We’ve already accepted the fact that we cannot speak to a real person when we try to resolve a banking problem or book an airplane flight. We obediently toddle off to the chat feature to converse (that’s a stretch) with an A.I. bot that wants to know the nature of our problem (as if they are sentient enough to care). More and more of our daily interactions are going to be with the artificial intelligentsia.

Maybe they have the right name for A.I. after all. It is artificial. You might even say it’s synthetic. I prefer natural fibers.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

I was invited by one of the women in my golf group to participate in a series of beginner bridge lessons in her home, and I thought why not? They say this complex card game is especially good for the aging brain. It seems to me anything that might help us dodge dementia is a good thing. I’m retired. I’ve got the time.

Today was my first lesson, and that’s an hour and a half I’ll never get back.

Perhaps I should have known. When I told Dale, he reminded me math was involved. While it’s true I picked journalism as a major because it was about the only degree that didn’t require even the most rudimentary of math skills, I thought, well, it’s a card game. How hard can it be?

Many of you probably know this already, but it’s damned hard. I won’t even go into the complexities I tried to absorb during this first lesson, but it reminded me of high school geometry, when the teacher spent an entire semester saying, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”

Because that’s what it sounded like to me.

I’m 67, reasonably intelligent and in excellent health. However, I don’t think I have enough time left to understand this game.

Even without the card counting and all that, there are all kinds of weird things including where you sit and what cards you play – north, south, east and west. What’s so wrong about left and right?

Sometimes your partner will show all their cards, and you play those, too. Like one hand wasn’t enough. And all these little codes to signal your partner how you want to bid. If everyone subscribes to the same convention, why not just say it in plain English? I have five spades!

I didn’t want to disappoint my friends, but I also didn’t want to pretend I’d come back when I knew it was a lost cause. While I acknowledge some stress is good for you, this is the kind of stress that makes me miserable. Rather than drag it out, I just laid it out for them. They were gracious, but now they have to find a replacement, which sucks for them.

When I got home, I told Dale he was right. Numbers gone wild! Crazy stuff! And all my Thursdays eaten up just to learn the basics? I’m pretty sure I would start dreading Thursdays, finding excuses to stay in bed, when in fact it’s a rather pleasant day of the week that has done me no previous harm.

He said, “So, you’re saying it was a bridge too far?”

The man’s still got it.

All this is good news for those of you who enjoy reading my blog. I haven’t posted in a couple of weeks, and I had been thinking, maybe I’ll just quit writing. But that’s looking like a bad strategy now that I know bridge isn’t going to save me.

I promised the bridge gods I would work harder at writing if they would just leave me alone.

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

A familiar sight, my grandchild absorbed in his ‘screens.’ Focused on a small rectangle of light and magic, absorbed in animated conflicts, he is cocooned within the world around him. Like a writer subsumed by his concentration, he startles and remonstrates if someone barges into the room with real-life presence and demands.

As I age, I can be present to my family, my grandkids, as happened recently on a trip to my childhood neighborhood. I would point out landmarks—a now empty lot where our house once stood, my grade school, my best buddy’s home, the ricotta store. Acting like a tour guide, I passed along footnotes on the passing scene. But all the time, I was running a movie behind my eyes, screening flashbacks and backstories. Us guys throwing snowballs from across the street at the O in Roman Cleanser sign still visible on the sidewall of Wajo’s grocery store and the spitting contests where I was the acknowledged champ…could clear four sidewalk squares with just the right booger. But I couldn’t stop to relay all that. Not in real time. I would be using up their lifetimes to relive mine. And they still wouldn’t be able to know it the way I did, the way I experienced that time and place.

And so, I startled over and over as we walked along whenever a child or grandchild broke into my throwback screen-time:

“So, how many corner stores were there on your way to school?”

“How come the school is closed?”

“Did you have Little League in those days?”

So, when I wonder if it’s healthy for a child to be so absorbed in computer games and social media, I have to realize that I can get lost in my own dramas, locked in my own memory vault. And if I can’t quite understand the appeal that screens have for my kids, I have to remind myself that not everything we experience and feel can cross the generation gap. And anyway, no one can experience what I went through. My story is my own and only the broadest outlines can be shared. Unless I were a very good story teller…and even then. As my wise father-in-law once said when asked to describe his experience as a sailor in WWII, “If you were there, I don’t have to tell you. If you weren’t, I don’t have the words.”

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/