Make Your Bed Exercise

 

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 If we cannot change the behavior, can we change how we view the behavior?

One year ago, while struggling to make our Queen Size bed I questioned when did this bedspread become so heavy?

The task had become tedious, requiring walking around the bed about ten times to achieve a wrinkle free look, all the while complaining. I did not have the strength to flip the comforter across the bed.

I recalled working as a waitress/chambermaid at the Green Gables Hotel in Hensonville New York, how we would run upstairs after serving breakfast, to strip and remake beds, each bed taking approximately five minutes. We were back downstairs before the quest left the dining room. The year was 1964, and I was sixteen.

Bob, my husband, said, “Don’t make the bed. It’s only going to get messed up again.”

He is right, however I am a tidy person, an unmade bed was not an option. Call it a routine or habit started in childhood, you dressed and made your bed before breakfast.

I prefer the clean orderly picture a well-made bed creates and remember as a Mom of toddlers tripping over Lincoln Logs, Match Box cars, baby dolls, and diapers in the living room to find refuge in my bedroom and look at a tidy bed, knowing hospital corners were concealed under the spread.

Now, I was not only older, but weaker.

Consequently, I signed up at a gym, even hired a personal trainer, and started treating the task of making a bed a challenge.

The results were slow but steady, considering I wanted to avoid pain and think sweating is highly over rated.

However, in July, we traveled north to escape Florida’s heat for four weeks, and I was at risk of becoming a statistic, most people (80%) stop going to the gym after five months.

13ff6543-74a7-4938-811f-97e6d4c24c9a_1.db6bc136ad0b6ef50bc16d0a248f0d17Luckily, I discovered a PBS program, Classical Stretch. by instructor Miranda Esmonde-White.  Her exercise program is amazing. I even bought her book, “Aging Backwards.” my friends are sick and tired of hearing me talk about her so I have stopped.

However, just listening to her talk while she exercises gave me a new perspective on aging.

She says the notion that muscle atrophy is synonymous with aging is false. The breakdown of muscles, muscle atrophy, is not caused by aging but by lack of use, and can happen at any age, but happens more quickly as we age. She references research to support her exercise approach to counter the premises that muscle atrophy is a side effect of aging.

So making a bed is more difficult at seventy, than at sixteen years old, not because of aging, but because of less activity. Miranda says in layman’s words, muscles not being used are programed to die.

Which came first the chicken or the egg or in this case, aging or less active? It does not matter, the solution is to exercise, all six hundred and forty muscles.

Since doing Classical Stretch, a twenty-three minute program, five days a week I have stopped taking naps and can make the bed in less than five minutes.     

. . . . just saying

 

 

Gray Hair and Feeling Maudlin

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Now that the Christmas tree is back in the box it came in, and the furniture in its proper place, I am excited to start the New Year. Our grand-kids will be visiting this week and my husband, Bob, and I plan to visit Italy in the Spring. The temperature today is sixty-five, and its sunny. Life seems good when Bob mumbles something from the living room.

After forty-seven years of marriage, I am not certain if the mumbling is to annoy me, or he has forgotten I cannot hear with the water running and question what he said, “Really? Alex Trebek is going off the air because he shaved his mustache?”

Bob is watching Jeopardy, and raises his voice to shout, “No I don’t like Alex Trebek with or without his mustache.”

There is something discerning about his tone. I turn off the water, grab a dishtowel, and join him on the couch. “I thought you liked Jeopardy.”

He continues grumbling that if the show had more categories about sports, he would know every answer, and that Alex Trebek is cheap, not giving every contestant all their earnings. I agree, second and third place contestants receive $2,000 and $1,000 respectively not their final Jeopardy winnings.

Understand, Bob can be grumpy. He sports a tattoo; one of Disney’s Seven Dwarfs, Grumpy, however this seems unusual, and I ask, “Are you feeling maudlin?”

He replies emphatically, “Yes! I just don’t know what else can go wrong!”

Surprised by his reaction, I am concerned and say, “Has something happened?”

Now, Bob has had numerous medical challenges and I joke, “He has no pancreas, no spleen, no gallbladder, no thyroid and no appendix but a full head of hair and all his own teeth.” He is a healthy man. So I ask again, “What is it?”

Hesitantly he says, “Today after golf, I showered, and like I always do, combed my hair, head down over the sink, but when I stood up the sink was full of gray hair. I am losing my hair! I can’t believe something else is wrong.”

No wonder he is feeling maudlin, the salt and pepper hair makes him look younger. However, I laugh and through uncontrollable chuckles explain the gray hair is mine, combed into the sink while cleaning my hairbrush that morning, and evidently forgot to wipe up.

“So I’m not losing my hair,” he says and relieved joins me in laughter.

I am reminded of a Betty Davis quote, “Old age is not for sissies.” She is right.

                                                                        . . . . just saying

If I Could Turn Back Time

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I  am not the only one getting older, I thought watching the Kennedy Center Honors program the day after Christmas. Many honorees are older, their achievements come over time. Cher looked fantastic at seventy-two years of age. In tribute to Cher, Cindi Lauper strutted her sixty-five year old body across the stage, singing “If I Could Turn Back Time”. Cindy appeared a little winded and I worried her wig would fall off but delivered a great performance that had the audience on their feet.

“You go girl!” I said out loud repeating the refrain If I Could Turn Back Time, and clapping along.

It is not possible to turn back time, really, but the program was a reminder that some people are better at aging. Is it possible to slow down the aging process and not become old people: frail, feeble and decrepit?

Take a  look at Nancy Pelosi, who sat in the balcony during the show, totally enjoying herself.

220px-Nancy_Pelosi_2012Politics aside, she looks marvelous at seventy-eight years of age and according to VeryWellHealth.Com her life expectancy is increasing.

Statistics indicate,  “If you make it to 75 your life expectancy increases to 86.8. You gain another 3.4 years. That means the average 75-year-old will live 9.3 years longer than the average child born in 2006. Go figure, you can increase life expency by living longer.

Nancy Pelosi is aging well. She probably has a fitness trainer and had “work” done., however, would never be called old.

So where does that leave the rest of us? Can we avoid becoming “old people”?

Aristotle said “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence therefore is not an act but a habit.”

I looked at the habits of old people and came up with seven.

Seven Habits of Old People

  1. They spend a minimum of five hours a day sitting
  2. When shopping, they park as close as possible to the store, shuffle in and lean on the shopping cart for upper body support.
  3. Stay home when it rains.
  4. Complain they can’t remember and don’t.
  5. Think getting mail, even junk mail, doctor appointments and garbage pickup are highlights in a day.
  6. They yell at other drivers, scream at computers and curse at their cell phones
  7. They talk mostly about medical issues, who died and what is wrong in the world.

If I have left something out, but you cannot remember what; type CRN (Can’t Remember Now) in the comment box which can be found below.

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                                           Just Saying . . . .  If we could turn back time?

 

Summer Time

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Summer Time

Today is Thursday, June 21st, the 172nd day of 2018, there are 193 days left in the year, officially it is summer and the song Summer Time, and its refrain, living is easy  repeatedly plays in my head.

I am remembering the time in my life when school was almost out and a Fourth of July Parade followed by fireworks signaled the start of endless summer days. Some mornings there were swimming lessons at one of the Levittown pools,  other mornings I would meet my friend, Vicki Love, under our weeping willow tree to play cards, search for a four-leaf clover or read Nancy Drew Mysteries.

It was not necessary to phone, text or email we made plans the night before as the streetlights went on signaling everyone to go home.

Lunch was either peanut butter and jelly, bologna or tuna fish on white mushy bread, then we walked once again to the pool for an afternoon swim. We may have watched cartoons before the Dinah Shore Show followed by dinner woven with family discussion. The girls did the dishes while the boys disposed of the trash.

We now live in Florida where the kids have been out of school and the days hot since the end of May. The sun is too strong, the humidity an albatross around my neck and I spend most of the day inside wearing a sweatshirt because air conditioning and I do not get along. We will head north to New Jersey in a couple of weeks to a cabin rental on Cozy Lake to visit family and friends and fend off mosquitoes.

I have a long list of books to read because I made a commitment to the Great American Read. So far, I read 1984, The Giver, neither of which was cheery, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland a story of nonsense I returned because it made no sense, and Invisible Man, feels like homework, I will let you know.

 In between, I am reading books by Alexander McCall Smith, a favorite author of mine known for the PBS series The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency.

The song, Summer Time is still rumbling around my head causing me to wonder why the living was easy and  I have concluded it was not because I was a kid and times were simpler as much as, kids were not allowed to watch TV and did not read the newspaper.

I have news fatigue, so without naming names, decided to dust off my Nancy Drew collection.

Its summer time and living needs to get easy.

.  .  .  . just saying

Next Door Neighbors

american-gothic-grant-wood-art-institute-of-chicago-244I keep thinking today is Thursday and it is only 6:30 in the morning. I started thinking today was Thursday in the middle of the night, do not know why because yesterday definitely felt like Tuesday which it was, consequently I should have a feeling today is Wednesday but do not. However, what difference does it make if today is Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday? I am retired!

Nevertheless, I am happy today is Wednesday, not Thursday, because that gives me an extra day between Wednesday and Friday which I need since I opened my big mouth and invited the neighbors over because, although everyone appears to be happy standing in driveways with the sun beating down on our heads pretending not to sweat while we chat, I envision something else.

Well actually, what happened is Mr. Wonderful* came back from getting the mail and announced that the Smith’s house was for sale. Surprised, I asked where were they moving to, his response  “No one is moving “Mary died, that’s why all the cars were parked there last week.”

Stunned I expressed how terrible it is we did not know, and asked about her husband and if he will move closer to family, Mr. Wonderful said, “No her husband died six months ago.”

When we moved here, I joined Nextdoor ,  a private social network that will help find your dog or a plumber so I would be in the know but could not remember my password and instead started knocking on doors.

So we are getting together in two days.

There really is not much to do, neighbors said they would bring what they like to drink and a dish to pass but I need to dust and make sure the toilet is flushing properly which it started not doing the day before yesterday. I need to find that password.

In the mean time bits and pieces from a Chinese passage about neighbors and community are creeping into my head, and search online to find this;

Let there be a small country with a few people

Though neighboring communities overlook one another and the crowing of cocks and barking dogs can be heard

Yet the people there may grow old and die without ever visiting one another

Oh, now I remember what difference it makes if today is Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday; Wednesday morning the trash gets picked up.

                               .  .  .  .  Just saying

Painting by Grant Wood

*Mr. Wonderful is my husband of 47 years

 

 

 

 

Grant Wood Pitch Fork

Just Another Day

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The Fairchild Oak

Just Another Day

Today is just another day but not really. It is a day not to be anywhere, do anything, or explain why I changed my mind about doing nothing and did something. I was awake at 2am listening to the rain, thunder, and cracks of lightning like special effects from an Alfred Hitchcock film flash outside the bedroom window until 4am, when I got out of bed.

I was not going back to sleep.

Sprinkling cinnamon and sugar on a toasted piece of wheat bread smothered with real butter, I watch the mixture ooze into its crevices’, and ponder whether to brew a cup of coffee to dip its crust in, or walk to the Fairchild Oak, less than a mile from here, but consider how muddy the venture would be, and instead make beef barley soup from left over steak, adding frozen green peas, the petite ones.  

Today is just another day but not really. After watching an interview on CBS Morning News about Tom Hanks collection of short stories, “Uncommon Type” (the title reflects his fondness for and use of old typewriters) I am reading the book and now in love with him.

He laughs at himself, and likes writing because he knows what the prize is inside the box, or so he says.th

The book jacket describes Hank’s first work of fiction as one “that dissects, with great affection, humor, and insight, the human condition and all its foibles.”

I hear Tom’s voice as I pretend he is reading to me and sip beef broth standing up.

Today is just another day but not really, it is the first day of the rest of my life.

.  .  .  .  just saying

Blowing In The Wind

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Blowing In The Wind

Blowing In the Wind

Today, the first day of Spring, labeled a “Four-Easter” by weather channels in the Northeast, is a fine day here in Florida.

The air is crisp and a strong sun relaxes my shoulders as a gentle breeze rustles among the trees, a perfect day for drying sheets . . . . outside.

I remember fondly the  sound of sheets snapping in the wind outside a kitchen window in New Jersey and that fresh air scent once our heads lay to rest in bed that evening as Nirvana. However, although Florida is the Sunshine State, clothes lines are prohibited in many communities, ours included, evidently clean clothing swaying in the breeze is offensive or someone might shoot a pair of socks to the ground, I am not sure which,  it may be both.

Consequently, I have a folding laundry rack purchased at IKEA and although the sheets do not blow in the wind exactly .  .  .  .  they will acquire a nostalgic fragrance and help me avoid thoughts of:  Mark Zuckerberg,  Facebook, the twenty-two hundred-page$1.3T federal spending measure, or whether Trump should or should not have congratulated President Putin. 

I ask Alexa to play “Blowing in the Wind” the Peter, Paul and Mary version, and load my smart washing machine, wishing it was not that smart and let me decide how much water was needed, then hum along.

How many roads must a man walk down, before they call him a man
How many seas must a white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand
How many times must the cannonballs fly, before they are forever banned
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind

Returning to the bedroom, I see a pillowcase inadvertently dropped on the floor, pick it up and rush back to the laundry room hoping to cancel the start cycle before it “locks” and water flows into the washtub. Otherwise it will become un-lockable, a safety feature designed to protect humans unable to determine the hazard of putting one’s hand into a spinning washtub. Stupid is not included in the on-line owner’s manual simply implied.

I make it in time and consequently will have matching pillowcases to remake the bed then continue humming with Peter, Paul and Mary.

How many years can a mountain exist, before it is washed to the sea
how many years can some people exist, before they’re allowed to be free
how many times can a man turn his head, pretending he just doesn’t see
 

However, the refrain, The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind, sticks in my throat.

When it comes time, I fold the sheets careful to match the edges and strategically drape each linen to catch the wind humming:

How many times must a man look up,
before he can see the sky

How many years must one man, have before he can hear people cry
How many deaths will it take till he knows
too many people have died

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind

Today, the first day of Spring, labeled a “Four-Easter” by weather channels in the Northeast, is a fine day here in Florida. The air is crisp and a strong sun relaxes my shoulders as a gentle breeze rustles among the trees, a perfect day for drying sheets . . . . I grab a cup of afternoon coffee and sit outside.

 
Read more: Bob Dylan – Blowing In The Wind Lyrics | MetroLyrics

 

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blowin%27_in_the_Wind 

 

Red White and Blue

 

adbdbb06-7ba9-4aac-8787-0af095d59a5bThis  photo inspired my poem, I saw a bug colored red, white & blue, and hope you do too!

 

Red White and Blue

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
His red, white, and blue symbolic,
A political view
Understand freedom . . . be equal too

Like a school age kindergartener
Raise his hand to hold the flag
Chosen, glad with honor
Knows to say a prayer

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
Puff his chest, recite the pledge
Listen to a voice within
Battle for the helpless, or let the bullies win!

Stand side by side with those who care
Silently and stare
Misty eyed while taps is played for those who dare
Think America is beautiful

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?

. . . . just saying

 

Previous post, “Bored On The Fourth of July”

Second Thoughts

 

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Aging & Attitude

Mr. Wonderful* put down the newspaper, returned his glasses to the soft fabric case and sighed.

I asked, “What are you thinking?”

He responded, “Nothing, I’m thinking about nothing” and left the room to pee.

His matter of fact statement got me thinking.

My first thought, Is that possible? My second, would he be considered brain dead? My first and second thoughts were followed by third and fourth thoughts that I would rather not share.

Not that the first thought was better than the second thought, or third, or fourth, but, the first, stimulated more thought.  I could not stop thinking.

When he returned I inquired, “Is it really possible to think about nothing?”

He said, “Anything is possible, ” then turned on the television.

I was impressed. His one and only thought ended in no more thought, However I kept thinking;

  • 1st Thought          Was he always a one-thought thinker or is this a sign of aging?
  • 2nd Thought        If you have only one thought do you assume it is the right thought?
  • 3rd  Thought        Does a first thought carry more weight than following thoughts?
  • 4th  Thought        How does one acquire the confidence to have only one thought?

 

My thoughts turned to President Trump and  wondering whether he is a one-thought thinker. My first thought, he tweets like one. My second, third and fourth thoughts, well I would rather not share.

. . . . just saying

Do You Tweet?

*Mr. Wonderful is my husband of forty-six years, Bob.

 

Mr. Mouse and Beach Street

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Daytona is famous for the beach, racing, and Bike Week ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­. Water in shades of blue turquoise continue to roll across the flat beach front  that initially attracted John D. Rockefeller and Henry Ford to race cars here and Bike Week is now world famous however, Daytona is simply a nice small town where I discovered and fell in love with Mr. Mouse.

My sister, Mel and her friend, Ellen, came to escape single digit temperatures in the North and had visited Flagler Beach, New Smyrna, and CiCi and Hyatt Browns Art Museum, so I suggested lunch at the Dancing Avocado on Beach Street in Daytona. Having been there before, I knew there was shaded outdoor seating.


Although reports that Homeless plague the area discouraging shopping, I frequently attend a writers group at The City Island Library and have not experienced problems. Beach Street is quite nice and home of the famous Angell & Phelps Chocolate Factory, as well as my favorite Used Book Store, Abraxas.

Parking is easy to find, and free.

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A recent Daytona Beach News Journal article by Mark Lane reminisces about the area in the 1960s and details his family’s arrival in 1962 as engineers for General Electronics Apollo Support Program. Lane talks about the music scene, segregation (“He didn’t share a classroom with black kids until seventh grade”), and Beach Street as the place to shop.

So we headed to Beach Street and the Dancing Avocado.

As we drove, I explained to Mel and Ellen that although we were driving on Beach Street they would not be looking at the Atlantic Ocean. The view was of the Halifax River.

Mel asks, “So where is River Road?”

I responded, “ The east side of the Halifax is called River Road, lots of big expensive houses and part of The Loop.  My guess is Floridians went to the beach along the river because back then, there was no bridge to the Oceanside.”

“Really?” Mel was amazed.

It was a cool fifty-five degrees so we sat inside at the Dancing Avocado and selected Veggie Burgers and Symphony salads made with carrot curls, sprouts and sunflower seeds.

Afterwards, we perused the shops and I confessed my search for a vintage cookie jar. Something to fill in an empty counter top space, as we entered “Sisters Décor & More.”

13321656_1709493119301735_5649400088070015355_nThe store was stacked with floor to ceiling shelving and cluttered with previously owned items. Ellen spotted an Old Mother Hubbard jar and drew my attention saying, “She’s kind of nice.”

I moved closer for a better view, and responded lackadaisically, “She doesn’t do anything for me. I don’t know what I’m looking, I’ll know when I see it,” and turned around.

In the corner, his nose pointing towards me was Mr. Mouse.

There was no discussion, no debate. He was perfect  I loved his extremely large ears, his small beady eyes and spidery whiskers.

At home, Mr. Wonderful was unimpressed with my new purchase, not even the $19 price tag! He thought his ears too big, I thought them just right, although he believed an open stack of saltines would nestle easily in its long snout.

I love Mr. Mouse’s small beady eyes and spidery whiskers, and the way he sits on the counter oozing personality.  Mr. Wonderful . . . not so much and roams the house saying, “Eek, eek! I see a mouse.”

. . . . just saying

Mr. Wonderful, aka, Bob is my husband of 46 years.