I Finally Got the Joke

There are so many commercials these days that star Sports Figures. Sometimes I recognize them, Peyton Manning, Tom Brady, and a handful of Basketball Players I love. Those guys I recognize and maybe even understand why they are in the commercial. 

But this one commercial I've seen several times. Two men were sitting at a bar talking about the World Cup. Then an older gentleman at the end of the bar spoke up with a line that was obviously supposed to mean something. It didn't. At least not to me.

I figured there had to be a backstory, so I asked ChatGPT who he was. Turns out it was Mike Eruzione. Still didn't help.

Then I learned he was the captain of the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team—the "Miracle on Ice" team. His line in the commercial was a wink to one of the most famous moments in sports history.

Suddenly... I got the commercial. I knew it was a soccer commercial. I didn't realize the punchline belonged to hockey.

Now, I realize many of my Canadian friends and those of you from hockey country are probably smiling right now. You're thinking, "Barbara...everybody knows that." Apparently not everybody.

But that's one of the things I enjoy about getting older. I no longer mind admitting what I don't know. And even better, I have the time and the inclination to look it up. Because ten minutes later, I usually know a little more than I did before.

 I started out watching a soccer commercial. I ended up reading about Olympic hockey and learned an interesting story. 

It may have taken 10 minutes to read about it, but it has given me an afternoon of enjoyment. Now if somebody asks how my day was, they are going to learn more than they asked for about commercials, Olympic hockey and how much you can discover without ever leaving your arm chair.  

I've always been curious. I owned multiple dictionaries, World Books, etc. That was pre-internet, of course. Now I can open a tab, ask ChatGPT about something and a whole world I knew nothing about opens to me. 

This, for me, has been the answer to what am I supposed to do in my retirement. Because I am old and broke and limping along, I am hindered in fulfilling many of my desires but give me an internet connection and I'm Alice down the Rabbit Hole. 

One Cup of Coffee at a Time

Some days aren't bad enough to call disasters. They're just... aggravating. 

You're standing in the grocery line when something crazy happens twenty people ahead of you. You discover you need a new tire immediately, and the tire shop has a waiting room full of customers. You're driving to a doctor's appointment when traffic on the freeway comes to a complete standstill. It could even be a little conversation between friends, family or even customer service. 

None of these things are life-changing. But they all have the same effect. They drift over your mood like a dark rain cloud. 

By the time you get home, the aggravation isn't even about the grocery line or the flat tire, the traffic, or the conversation anymore. Your mood has simply settled into that place you don't enjoy. You pump up your tail feathers and march around the room, probably muttering to yourself about the perfect fix or last word. 

When I was younger, life usually reset itself. Work demanded my attention. Children needed something. There was no time to sit and dwell on an aggravation.

Retirement is different. Sometimes nothing arrives to push the cloud away. I've begun to notice that those are the days I don't need to solve the problem. I need to find my way back to myself. (Say this sentence again; it is important.)  

I woke up this morning with that still-gnawing aggravation on my mind. I knew I needed a reset. There was no solution to the long lines or traffic yesterday. I could sit and stew, or I could put on my Big Girl Panties and reset my frame of mind. 

Now I have a girlfriend whose resets begin with a vacuum cleaner. She pushes and jerks that vacuum back and forth until the carpet is threadbare and she has beaten her problem to death. 

For me, that reset often begins with a cup of coffee. Not because coffee solves anything. It doesn't. But making a fresh cup is familiar. It slows me down. It reminds me that my little corner of the world is still here waiting for me. 

Then I make the bed. I open the curtains. I warm up lunch. Feed Bonnie Rae and maybe find a movie or pick up the book I'm reading.

None of those things erases the aggravation. What they do is quietly rebuild the atmosphere where I recognize myself again. I've started thinking of these as little rituals of returning. 

Perhaps yours are different. Maybe you water your flowers. Maybe you sit on the porch before the world wakes up. Maybe you throw the carpet over a clothesline and beat it to death. You know what yours are. 

The ritual itself isn't important. What matters is the message it sends to your nervous system. "It is over. You can let go."

I suspect this is one of the quieter lessons of growing older. We can't prevent little aggravations from visiting us. They always will. 

But we can become surprisingly good at showing ourselves the way back. Not all at once, mind you. Not a magic cure.  

One familiar ritual at a time. One open curtain. One bed made. One cup of coffee at a time. 

The Comfort of Home

I'm sitting in the dark, watching a movie. It's late, but I'm not tired. The television is the only light in the room. Bonnie Rae is nearby, settled for the night. Outside, the world has gone quiet.

I realized tonight that I like this. Not because anything exciting is happening. Quite the opposite. I'm home. Safe. Comfortable in my chair. I don't need to be anywhere else.

For so many years, evenings were never really my own. There was work to finish, people to care for, places to go, and tomorrow already knocking at the door.

Tonight there is only this quiet room, the glow of the television, and the simple pleasure of knowing I am exactly where I want to be. Perhaps that's one of the quieter gifts of growing older. I've discovered that some of life's deepest contentment comes in the most ordinary moments.

Sometimes it's found in a dark room, a comfortable chair, a good movie, and the deep contentment of being safely home.