About 26 million Americans 50 or over live alone. It’s now the fastest-growing demographic in this country.

There’s a lot of reasons but key among them is that women have had more opportunities for career advancement, home ownership and financial independence. So, no surprise, women make up about 60% of the total.

And many of these live-alones feel positive about their circumstances. This, despite the fact that research clearly shows that they will face worse physical and mental health outcomes, as well as shorter life spans. Many of these individuals do not have children, which raises the additional quandary of who/how will they fit into any kind of elder care scheme.

Downsizing is problematic due to a lack of smaller scale housing. Despite the surge in single-person households, builders are focused on bigger and bigger homes. So many of these live-alones are forced to live in more space than they really need or can afford.

While they may prize their solo lifestyle, many of these boomers are freaked out by the looming elder care issue. Who are they going to call when a serious illness arises or a physical limitation makes it harder to live in their larger than needed home?

The solution may lie in some type of communal living option, where live-alones can continue to have the independence of living alone, but in a supportive atmosphere that at least assures their safety and emotional well-being. The co-operative housing movement is picking up steam but will it be large enough and soon enough to meet the demand of 26 million seniors is a big question. If you know a fellow boomer who is living alone, it would not be considered rude to discuss the co-op housing with them. The future for live-alone boomers could be bleak unless we boomers pull together to look for solutions.

It’s the least we can do for each other.

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.

It occurred to me I’m entering my sixth year of retirement, and it seems like it gets better every year. I still rather like the image of me as a slightly eccentric Bohemian heiress who dabbles in what amuses her. Although I am of Bohemian stock, nothing in my lineage includes money, so sadly, I had to earn my little nest egg.

Although I always had creative drive and longed to be a free agent, writing and puttering as I pleased, I didn’t have the will to live in poverty, as is so often the case with idealistic free agents. Instead, I chose a life of working for the man until there was enough to retire, and now I can dabble to my heart’s delight. Some of my jobs were pretty darned good and some sucked, but now I’m glad I stayed the course.

I’m reminded of a woman I use to work with. I made director before she did and was included in a variety of events for “directors and above.” When she wasn’t invited to said events, she’d say, “Another year of being a nobody.” She eventually got promoted and is presumably happy being somebody. I don’t miss all that faux specialness and have settled quite nicely into being a nobody.

While I do believe in the power of positive thinking, I also think there’s a case for not wanting too much. Not everything has to be bigger, faster, stronger or better in every way. For example, I’m a decent golfer, but I tell myself it’s OK to just play. Sometimes you will play well and sometimes you will not.

Hit the ball, hit the ball again. That’s my new mantra.

I also love word games and can be quite competitive. I quit playing Wordle for a few weeks because I was so angry I lost a game. I’m back to playing and have a nice streak going, but before I play, I tell myself, “You will lose. Accept it.” Somehow preparing for less than stellar results keeps me grounded.

Which brings me to Ray Wylie Hubbard, the renowned Texas musician. One of his notable songs is Mother Blues, a song where he and his guitar tell a richly layered life story. It’s such a cool song, and the last lines are pretty powerful.

And the days that I keep my gratitude

Higher than my expectations

Ah! Well, I have really good days.

That’s kind of where I’m at.

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

I don’t have one musically talented bone or gene in my body. But most of me is primed to appreciate music especially since the first time I heard “Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Haley and the Comets. Rock an’ Roll and I grew up together. We were the first generation to be defined by our music and that music was Rock. Everything else was controlled by adults: school, food, clothes, chores, and television. They even decided to call us Baby Boomers. A total waste of a moniker which described them not us. Baby Boomer described what they did after WWII. They boomed out the babies. We were the boomed.

I have always despised the title and do so especially now since it is a term of such derision by the younger “generationwhatthehellever. “Hey, Boomer,” primarily means “Old man who is responsible for the world’s problems.” Implying connection to Trump, Climate change, political chaos inflation and greedy billionaires. But Billy Joel knows “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

We birthed Rock ’n Roll. Billy Haley, Little Richard, Dion, Buddy Holley, and Fats Domino. It was the only thing that was ours. Adults hated it which made us more faithful to it. Loud, fast and obnoxious was how we wanted it and that was how we got it through the radio. It drove them away. It was also about sex hidden in code. We knew the Thrill on Blueberry Hill wasn’t about increasing our intake of fruit. And when little Richard sang “The Girl Can’t Help It” we knew exactly what that meant. And when Jerry Lee Lewis sang “Shake Baby Shake” we knew what she should shake. It was another way to prove adults weren’t as smart as they thought. We knew the secret.

A lead singer, guitar player and drums were all a band needed to play simple songs about a simple life preferably with no adults in the vicinity. When there was, we just turned the volume up.

WE ARE THE FIRST AND BEST ROCK AND ROLL GENERATION. The First R&R Generation. We have nothing to do with banging the babies out. The title was foisted upon us and has long outworn its usefulness.

Without us Americans would probably still be singing “How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”

Graham Campbell lives in Worcester, Massachusetts

I rarely use emojis, in part because half the time I can’t make out what they are trying to convey. And it’s not an eyesight issue. It’s more about whether that face is happy or sad or noncommittal. Are you trying to console me or mock me? Why are you sending me a pile of poop? Is that a grimace or did you get new dentures?

Sorry. I’ll get over it. But apparently Gen Z is done with some emojis and cannot understand why boomers are still using them. These are the same peeps who declared skinny jeans are over so you have to take them seriously.

According to research done with 16 to 29-year olds by Perspectus Global, there are 10 emojis that just make you look old. Thumbs up is number one on the kill list. Next is the red heart, followed by the OK fingers, check mark, poo, crying face, monkey eye cover, clapping hands, red lip kiss, and grimace face.

If you think you’re having trouble discerning emoji meanings, it turns out that 78 percent of those surveyed said they innocently used an emoji before learning that it meant something other than what they thought it did. Even they were as confused as I am.

By the way, this surveyed population indicated they used an average of 76 emojis per week. Is it so hard to just say what you mean? Why can’t we just say we’re happy to hear someone’s good news? Or sad to hear of someone’s misfortune? And I still don’t know why you would want to send someone fecal matter (new puppy?).

Twenty-two percent of the survey group indicated that they use multiple emojis in texts in order to make it clearer. Huh. Or should I say, huh? If the recipient is confused by the meaning of the inserted emoji, how does that make the text more clear?

Why am I asking you? You are most likely a baby boomer who couldn’t give 2 you-know-what’s (see…you don’t need a pile of poop). I’m glad I got that off my chest and that there is no emoji for the word chest. Is there??

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.

We were having a window replaced on a second story room. When the installer arrived, I showed him three different routes through the house to get to the room and the porch beyond. To my surprise, twenty minutes later I could hear sawing and banging but hadn’t seen the guy coming through our home. Curious, I looked outside to find that he had raised a ladder to the roof of the garage and was climbing up and over, and over and down with new parts and old. Wondering if he was worried about dirtying our carpet, I sat on the impulse to ask. After all, you don’t want to interrupt a craftsman in the middle of his task. He might do himself a harm.

But his roundabout way of approaching the task reminded me of an adult-ed class in small engine repair I had taken at the local high school. I had earned a B for my tune-up of a lawn mower engine and was feeling pretty satisfied with my efforts until I learned a classmate had earned an A+. I complained to the instructor. “Oh, that guy, he got extra credit for degree of difficulty. He’s a doctor, you see, an OB-GYN. And he did the whole procedure through the exhaust pipe.”

No wonder I resented the physician, given my fondness for efficient procedures and people who believe quicker is better. I tend to scorn anyone who takes longer than necessary or makes a job more elaborate and convoluted than required. However, as I have aged, I’ve come to realize that not everyone thinks saving time or energy is a great value in life. Maybe ‘thorough and slow’ is the ideal for them. Like the time, invited for dinner at a friend’s house, I could hardly stand it while we shared a glass of wine and watched our hostess slowly and deliberately peel each of two dozen shrimp for our taco dinner and then delicately de-vein them like a neurosurgeon tickling around the lobes of the brain. I had to resist saying, “Here, let me do that. I’ll finish in three minutes.”

I guess that’s why some people make good supervisors, and production-line foremen and jet fighter pilots while others would rather paint landscapes or rent row boats. You might be able to guess what side I favor.

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/

 

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