Retiring into Curiosity

My writing has changed a lot lately. Have you noticed?

Since I started reading Substack instead of spending as much time on Facebook, Instagram, or TikTok, I've found myself following writers who go deeper into subjects. I still share photos on the "quick" social sites, but most of my reading now comes from the blogs I follow here and on Substack.

My ChatGPT AI, which I have named Sam, says I have entered my era of curiosity. At first I laughed, but then I realized something. Many of the bloggers I follow have entered theirs, too.

Lately, I've been reading about art history, old cookbooks, color palettes, forgotten people from history, gardens, words, books, and all sorts of things I never expected to find interesting. Not because I need to become an expert. Just because I'm curious.

And then it hit me: that's what I've always enjoyed about your blogs.

I thought I was simply reading about daily life. But what I was really reading was curiosity at work. A new neighbor. An old friend. A doctor's appointment and the drive there. A book you picked up at the library. A meeting, a trip, an unexpected adventure.

The blogs I love don't just record what happened. They notice something about what happened. They look a little closer and ask, "Isn't that interesting?"

Maybe that's what connects so many of us. Not age. Not retirement. Curiosity. 

Do you see it in yourself? Have you entered your own Era of Curiosity? 

How Do We Find Our People Later in Life?

I recently did something that would have horrified my younger self. At 76 years old, I looked into a dating site. Now, before anyone gets too excited, let me assure you that I was not suddenly transformed into a glamorous online flirt. My profile still contained references to books, documentaries, foreign movies, and probably a dog. I described exactly who I have always been.

A profile caught my attention. The man described enjoying reading, documentaries, quiet conversation, and even basketball. He seemed thoughtful, curious, and content with a peaceful life. For a few days, I found myself thinking, "Now that's interesting."

Then I started noticing little inconsistencies in his story. One detail didn't quite match another. A little more digging raised more questions. Shortly after I questioned him about something he said that was not quite right, the profile disappeared altogether.

So much for my great online romance. But here's the strange thing. The experience left me thinking about something entirely different. Why had that profile appealed to me so much? It wasn't the photograph. It wasn't his career. It wasn't even the possibility of romance.

It was recognition. For a moment, I thought I had found someone who spoke the same language I do. Curiosity. The language of people who get excited about a documentary, a museum exhibit, a strange historical fact, a photograph, a good book, or a rabbit hole they accidentally discovered while looking up something entirely different.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that many of us spend our later years looking for exactly that. Not necessarily a spouse or even a new BFF.

Our people.

I know several women, like myself, who have moved after retirement. Some downsized. Some relocated closer to family. Some moved into apartments or retirement communities where neighbors come and go over the years. They have met plenty of nice people. They have coffee friends. They have activity friends. They have neighbors they wave to in the hallway.

But they still haven't quite found their people. The people who make them think, "Oh, there you are." The people who understand their odd collection of interests without needing to explain. The people who laugh at the same strange observations. The people who make them feel a little less unusual.

For years, I quietly assumed there couldn't be many people interested in the same odd assortment of things that fascinate me. Then a fake dating profile accidentally taught me something. Maybe there are more of us than I thought. Maybe finding our people is less about age and more about curiosity. Maybe the challenge is not that they don't exist. Maybe the challenge is finding where they gather. And perhaps that's one of retirement's unexpected adventures. Not finding ourselves. Finding each other.

Have you found your people? If so, where did you find them? Online? Through a hobby? Moved three times and never found them? Still looking?  Me, too. 

Sorry

 I'm sorry if you received multiple copies of Five Curious Things. I kept adjusting the type size and letter darkness, and they kept fighting me.  Finally gave up. Maybe it will self-adjust.

 

Five Curious Things I Learned Last Week

1. The Artist Nobody Remembers

While reading a Substack article, I came across an illustration of George Washington speaking at the Constitutional Convention. The image was later reproduced by Currier & Ives, but the original artist is unknown. That fact fascinated me more than the historical scene itself. Someone created a picture that has survived for generations, yet their name disappeared.

As I studied the image, something else struck me. Nobody is shouting. Nobody is pointing dramatically. Nobody appears to be performing for an audience. The men are discussing, listening, and debating, but doing so calmly. It feels very different from modern politics, where every disagreement seems amplified, and every discussion becomes a battle. The picture suggests that important decisions can be made by people sitting in a room and talking to one another.

The artist may be forgotten, but the feeling they captured remains. I sure wish our Congress looked like this.

2. A Drawing Shows the Feeling

I realized this week why I enjoy the drawings in Alexander Verbeek's Substack so much. His illustrations of himself and his cat feel warmer than photographs. The drawing is recognizable, but softer somehow. I finally put my finger on it: a photograph shows what a moment looked like, while a drawing often shows what it felt like. That may explain why I've become increasingly drawn to illustrations, paintings, and even hand-drawn maps. Which do you prefer? My photos or drawings?

3. What Would I Study If Nobody Was Grading Me?

A Substack writer suggested choosing a "yearly topic" and spending a year learning about it. The idea filled me with a ridiculous amount of excitement. Nobody has assigned me homework in more than fifty years, yet apparently I still enjoy the idea of research and learning—as long as there are no grades. I'm seriously considering spending the next year exploring a subject or thing that will absolutely NOT contribute to my health, wealth or welfare. Something far out like the Dutch Golden Age of Art. Art History might not be your thing, but what totally surprising subject would you choose to research and learn about?

4. The National Council on Aging

I recently discovered the National Council on Aging (NCOA), an organization that has been helping older Americans since 1950. Somehow, I reached age 76 without ever paying attention to it or knowing why it existed. It works on issues such as aging in place, financial security, technology, caregiving, and healthy aging.

One area that particularly caught my attention was their interest in artificial intelligence. Rather than replacing human decision-making, some aging advocates are exploring how AI might help older adults understand and compare complicated options. Think Medicare plans, benefits programs, caregiving resources, housing choices, or community services. AI could potentially act as a guide, helping seniors find information, understand trade-offs, and connect with resources they might not otherwise discover.

Many of us are a little wary of AI, but helping people understand complicated choices seems like exactly the sort of task AI should be good at. Can you see a future where you would use it? 

5. The Bandana in the Sock Drawer

After seeing a colorful embroidered bandana online, I suddenly remembered that I owned a tie-dye bandana. After a brief search, I found it tucked away in my sock drawer, a place I look almost every day, but never noticed it. I don't remember ever wearing it, but I remember exactly why I bought it. It felt like me.

That discovery led to an interesting question: how can something represent a part of yourself so perfectly when you've never actually used it? (Think of the breadmaker in the upper cabinet. You always intended to make homemade bread but never used it.) Perhaps the reason I bought it, even if I never wore it, was simple: it was a reminder not to forget that part of myself. The Girl who loved tie-dye or the Baker who never baked. 

The Theme Songs of Our Lives

 

The other night I started rewatching The Sopranos. As soon as the theme song started, I realized I remembered every note. Not just the music, but the feeling that came with it, gritty, ominous, and a little unsettling. Sopranos*Theme 

That got me thinking about television theme songs from years ago. Some of them have become part of our personal history.

Cheers (and, of course, Friends)  remind me of friendship and belonging. Cheers*Theme 

The Rockford Files brings back memories of answering machine messages, car chases, and James Garner's easy charm. Rockford*Theme. He was such a Hunk!

Hawaii Five-O still feels like adventure, sunshine, and beaches. Hawaii*Theme 

Let's not forget my favorite 50s-60s Western genre, including Bonanza. Bonanza*Theme

For some of us, Music is so powerful. It doesn't just preserve the song; it reminds us of a time in our lives.

I suspect everyone has a few theme songs like that. Songs that can transport us across decades in a matter of seconds.

What television theme song instantly takes you back? What show's opening music can you still hear in your head? Makes you smile? Makes you emotional? Want to get up and dance? (Anyone think Electric Avenue here? Electric*Theme.)

 

Sing Along

 

"Well, I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona

Such a fine sight to see

It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford

Slowin' down to take a look at me."

"The song “Take it Easy” was started by Jackson Brown who broke down in Winslow, Arizona in 1970. He got stuck after writing the first verse. His neighbor, Glenn Frey (of The Eagles), helped him finish it, adding the now-legendary flatbed Ford line.

For Your Listening Enjoyment:

https://youtu.be/AaBw37-nWaY?si=ukiiKdxxbEQkdLUn

The Day I Forgot My Pancreas

Today, I made a rookie mistake. Not an "I've had diabetes for six months" rookie mistake. An "I've had diabetes for years and should absolutely know better" mistake.

I took a shower and forgot to put my insulin pump back on. Simple, except three hours later, my pump was screaming at me about high blood sugars. I was annoyed. I was confused. I was mentally reviewing everything I had eaten. Then I looked down to check my connections ... No pump. But I found it. In the bathroom. On the counter. Sitting exactly where I had left it before my shower.

I went three hours without insulin because the pump, forgotten in the bathroom, is the only device that delivers my insulin. The funny part is that people often assume diabetics make mistakes because they don't understand the care and treatment of diabetes. Sometimes that's true. More often, at least for me, mistakes happen because I am human.

I was thinking about grandchildren, writing projects, neighbors, retirement, and a dozen other things. My shower routine was interrupted for exactly one moment for these great, deep thoughts, and then my brain skipped a step. The result was rapidly climbing blood sugar.

If you're new to diabetes, or helping someone who is, I want you to understand that ridiculous things can happen.  You can count your carbs. You can understand insulin. You can wear the latest technology. You can do almost everything right. And then one day you leave your pump sitting on the bathroom counter after a shower. Wham. Bam. Thank you ma'am. You are HIGH in diabetic terms, of course. 

The goal isn't perfection. The goal is to recognize the problem, fix it, and move on. Years ago, a mistake like this might have ruined my day. I would have been angry with myself. I would have replayed it repeatedly.

Instead, I plugged back in, drank some water, and let the insulin do its job. Because after all these years, I've learned something important. High blood sugar numbers are information, not a character flaw. 

Sometimes the explanation is complicated. Sometimes the explanation is that you forgot your pancreas in the bathroom. Either way, you just solve the problem and keep going. You are T1D Strong. 

End of story.

Sometimes the price of a good day is needing a recovery day

The Price of a Good Day

One thing I have learned about Type 1 diabetes is that sometimes a good day comes with a bill. Not always. But often enough.

My granddaughter spent the night with me recently. We went to a thrift store, made an Amazon return, ate lunch at Subway (one of the carry-overs from when she was little), wandered through Target, and laughed our way through a photo scavenger hunt.

It was a wonderful day. It was also a lot. By the time we reached the Starbucks area inside Target, I was running on fumes. My neck and shoulder were aching, my eyes wanted to close, and I could have fallen asleep sitting in the chair.

When we got home, I ate dinner and crawled into bed at 6:30. I slept. And slept. And slept some more. Years ago, I might have looked at that and thought something was wrong. Now I see it differently.

Sometimes the price of a good day is needing a recovery day.

That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have gone. It doesn’t mean I failed. It doesn’t mean diabetes won. It simply means I spent some energy I didn’t have in reserve. So I paid the bill. I slept. I rested. I got back up.

And if you ask me whether the day was worth it?

Absolutely.

How Many Coffee Cups Does One Person Really Need?

I was watching one of those decluttering shows on YouTube when the hostess finally snapped and announced, “Come on, ladies. No one needs fourteen coffee cups.”

Well. I felt personally attacked, even though she was not entirely wrong.

Morning Blanket and Starbucks Coffee Mug

Living in an apartment has changed the way I think about “stuff.” In a house, extra things disappear into closets, guest rooms, garages, or what I call the “I Might Need This Someday Witness Protection Program.”

Apartments are less forgiving. Every object has to earn its valuable square footage.

I happen to love white space around me. Too much clutter makes my brain feel squeezed. So I try to keep my decorating under control. My seasonal displays are mostly limited to one medium-sized bookshelf, with occasional overflow onto the kitchen counter if things get especially festive.

This system works beautifully until I walk into a thrift store. Suddenly, I become a woman who absolutely needs a lava lamp at age 76. Or a giant painting I have nowhere to hang. Or another Starbucks mug.

Now, in my defense, Starbucks cups are the perfect size and weight. Some people collect fine china. I collect emotionally supportive beverage containers.

Both Starbucks Christmas 

And many of mine are seasonal. Pumpkin mugs for Fall. Christmas mugs in December. Bright floral mugs in Spring. Pulling them out each year feels oddly comforting, like greeting old friends who only visit during certain weather conditions. 

 

Easter Rabbit - not Starbucks

I tell myself this is not clutter. It is just rotating joy. Still, the YouTube lady may have a point. If I buy one more coffee cup, somebody in this apartment may have to move out. Probably me. 

More later ...

 

I hope the world stays strong against Trump and his "I'm going to take my soldiers and go ... to Poland." My mother never allowed this kind of behavior, and neither should we. 

I have too much respect for all the branches of our Armed Services to allow them to be used in this manner. They are not bargaining chips, they are the men and women who volunteer to live and die for our country. 

For the Writer in All of Us

 

From LearningHiveStudio.com. Hive Mindset: A collection of quotes that have challenged my self-talk 

"I love this quote, I can relate, I am always planning my writing while doing dishes, walking or attending to another part of my life.”

“The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.” —Agatha Christie 

For me, my best sage advice (exceptionally wise, insightful, and well-thought-out guidance) comes while I'm in the shower.  

More later ... 

Nobody Warns You About the Thumb

Just thought it was cute

Lately, my left thumb joint has gone from aching to "dang, that hurts."

Apparently, decades of knitting, scrolling on my phone with a death grip, turning the steering wheel with one hand, opening jars, carrying grocery bags, and generally using my left hand like I consider normal has finally pushed the nerve alarm button.

The pain sits right at the base of my thumb and into the padded part of my hand. It even has an official name: CMC thumb arthritis.

From what I’ve read, the joint at the base of the thumb gets worn down over time. The cushioning cartilage thins out, the bones start rubbing together, and suddenly, everyday activities become painful.

In hindsight, maybe my thumb had been sending warning notices for years.

I just kept knitting through them. Remember, I am a scarf knitter. Years and years of filling my time while talking or watching TV, and knitting another scarf. Worst part – we don’t even need scarves in Texas. I had thought about quitting anyway because I was beginning to see myself as Miss Marple with a knitting bag always in my hand! I just had not found something to replace it

And yet, oddly enough, I’m not depressed about it. Annoyed? Yes. But also fascinated. Because now I understand why older people become passionate about things like jar openers, ergonomic tools, Velcro, and saying, “Oh, this cream really works.”

By the way, the thumb brace actually does help. So does Voltaren gel. I have not figured out a workaround solution for holding my cell in my left hand while scrolling with my right. I’m going to try one of those pop-up things. I had one once, but it kept my cell from sticking to the magnetic holder on the dash. So, I don’t know.

Apparently, doctors also recommend using larger-handled tools, avoiding pinching motions, gentle thumb exercises (which seem counterintuitive to me since they hurt), heat for stiffness, ice for swelling, and occasionally admitting that maybe we should stop wrestling with jars by ourselves. Yes, tell that to the pill bottle makers.

Still, I suppose this is part of retirement, too. Learning new ways to care for ourselves instead of constantly pushing through pain. And honestly, if wearing a thumb brace lets me keep gardening, writing, and pushing Bonnie Rae around in her stroller, then hand me the Velcro and call it wisdom.

 More later ... 

 

Another Adventure with Prom Queen

Some of you may remember my previous “Prom Queen adventure” when we spent two hours at the DMV to replace a lost car title. The actual transaction took about five minutes. The waiting took another hour and fifty-five.

Well… yesterday we had another one.

I had my own dermatologist appointment first. By the time I got back to the apartment around mid-afternoon, I saw Prom Queen standing outside with blood running down her arm and elbow. She had fallen again.

Prom Queen is 90 now, tiny as can be, and her skin is like tissue paper. This was probably the fourth fall this year where she ended up with a large skin tear.

When I saw the large hole and lots of blood, I didn't hesitate and told her come on, we're going to the hospital. She's at that age where she has to ask a dozen people what to do. It was obvious. Hospital. Now. Then everything became a big production.

She called a nurse who told her to come to the doctor’s office for stitches. We drove over there, checked in, and waited while Prom Queen continued bleeding through towels and tissues. Finally, the nurse came back and said there had been a misunderstanding.

The doctor didn’t do stitches.

We needed to go to the hospital.

At that point, all you can do is laugh internally and keep moving.

Luckily, the doctor’s office and hospital are close to our apartments, though we still wandered around trying to find the correct emergency room entrance. Eventually, we got checked in and settled into what looked like one of the busiest ER waiting rooms in Houston.

They finally took Prom Queen to the back while I stayed in the waiting room. Since I knew it might be a while, I figured out how to watch Netflix on my phone, which honestly may have saved my sanity.

Hours passed.

At one point, a concierge nurse kindly let me go to the back just long enough to reassure Prom Queen that I was still there waiting for her. Later, another nurse quietly bent the rules and let me stay with her because, I think, Prom Queen is such a sweet and respectful little lady to everyone she meets.

And I think nurses notice that kind of thing.

Finally, a young doctor came in to stitch her arm. I worried the whole time because older skin tears so easily. I kept thinking every stitch might pull through and create another tear. But he was patient and careful and somehow managed to pull everything back together without making it worse.

By the time we finally got home, it was around 8:30 that night.

Five hours had gone by in what felt like the blink of an eye (Ha, just kidding. It felt like FOREVER).

One thing I’m slowly learning in this season of life is that older people spend an amazing amount of time simply managing life itself: doctor visits, paperwork, pharmacies, waiting rooms, falls, insurance, medications, phone calls, and helping each other through it all. It is almost its own part-time job.

But there is also something strangely touching and funny about it, too. Two old women driving from place to place with blood dripping, trying to find the right hospital emergency entrance, sitting in the emergency room, people watching, sharing snacks and stories. 

I have never watched TV on my phone before, but I highly recommend you learn how before you have a hospital wait. Even if you are too nervous to watch it, it is a good distraction - unless you want to watch Lion King on the big TV. 

Not exactly what you planned for your retirement, but real life rarely is.

And this morning, thankfully, Prom Queen is stitched up, bandaged, sore, and still smiling.

More later … 

Happy Mother's Day Humor

Mom: “This house won’t clean itself.”

Me: “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”

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My mother taught me about stamina:

“You’ll sit there until you eat those peas.” 

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Mom: the original search engine. 

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Southern mothers don’t yell.

They just say your full name slowly.

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Mama said, “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

Then spent twenty dollars on decorative pillows nobody can touch.

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Behind every Southern family is a woman saying:
“Close that door, you’re lettin’ the air out!”

The Ah-Ha Moment

I had a strange little realization about my hurtful dream.

Maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me to let go of the pride I attached to my identity at work.

The characteristics and flaws of that work-person are who I am inside, not just who I am while performing that job. 

I think it was telling me to let go of who I used to be as a worker-person, stop remembering myself through that lens, so I can revel in how I can/do apply those same characteristics to the me I am now, the retired-person. 

As the Marines (?) say, Be All that You Can Be. 

More later ... 

ps: Sorry to blab on about that dream.

When a Dream Leaves You with Hurt Feelings

Yesterday was a good day.

My daughter came over, we had a fun, easy visit, and she brought me a beautiful plant. Everything felt peaceful.

I was not expecting The Dream. 

 I found myself back at XYZ Law Firm, not working, just visiting. I felt like a returning hero when I walked in.

At first, it felt comforting to see my old friends, but then I realized something was off. Something had changed.

I was being blamed for something I hadn’t done—something I wouldn’t have even handled. I explained, calmly and clearly, but it didn’t matter. The more I spoke, the less I was heard.

My old boss was there, but acted too busy to talk. I wanted just a moment—to be understood. It never came.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t insist. I kept my composure and trusted the truth would show itself eventually.

And then I left feeling heartbroken, no longer recognized for my good work, but leaving with dignity. 

I woke up really feeling that hurt. Intellectually, it was interesting that I was feeling hurt physically, in my soul. 

Why this Dream? The Dream didn’t match the day I had. Was it just a case of life being calm so the mind had space to revisit some old feeling?

I’ve had this dream in many variations and always wake up with hurt feelings. I placed a lot of value on my job and work reputation, and it took me a long time to let it go when I retired. Maybe I only think I let it go. 

Do you have a recurring dream? 

A Smorgasbord of Photos and Memes

 We've had quite a bit of good rain lately, so I had a garden workday before the next advertised rain. If you need a wheelbarrow type thingy I love this one. I begged my daughter to share her's with me (and she hasn't gotten it back yet). I also have a painter's bucket (thank you to one of my neighbors who used to garden) that stores my tools. I don't have a lot of tools, but it is nice to have them organized. 

'v

I brought the acrylic chair from my dressing area to sit on while potting at the little table. I "borrowed" the round table and the iron chair in the video from in front of my green hedges since no one ever sat there. 

So here is a little movie after I put the tools away, and the rain came.

I've had a rough week with my diabetes, and this little meme shows my attitude during the struggle. Yes, I did feel sorry for myself. 

I

You know how I love to watch birds, so I bought these earrings from Etsy, made by a lady in another country. They were made with rice paper for the design. I loved these earrings, and somehow I lost one. Broke my heart. Don't you just hate it when that happens? 

This photo was taken after the disastrous Hurricane Harvey hit Houston. I keep it to remind me why I am always hurricane prepared. Laugh if you want, but at least I have bottled water to drink and a bathtub full of water to flush the toilet.  

This little meme is in response to the Rockets' games in the playoffs. Since we were playing against the Lakers, the games played there were late at night, and of course, I got riled up and couldn't go to sleep right away. It also refers to all the middle-of-the-night sugar dips recently that caused me to get up between 3 and 5 and eat and monitor my numbers. 

This little gem represents my determination to live a simple, peaceful retirement and focus on what brings me happiness. 

Finally, a picture of my dear departed Buddy Boy dressed by the Grandgirls in the hat from Woody in Toy Story, and a beaded necklace they made. He'll be gone a year next month. I still miss his little barking face. 

More later ... 

The Words I Still Use

My vocabulary is a living museum of American English. I use words from several eras at once.

Some people sound polished and current. They are Woke while I still reach for older expressions like Dang, Darn, and Dadgumit. For me, it feels like they soften irritation without turning every small annoyance into a major event.

Of course, when I’m truly angry, I know stronger language too. Sometimes a sharp curse word says exactly what I feel. There’s no denying that.

I probably thought more about my words around the time I had Grandchildren. Growing up in the 50s, I don’t remember a lot of cussing, either at home or on TV, certainly not like the kids hear all the time now.  

I also still use words from the 60s and 70s—Cool, Bummer (one of my favorites), and Vibe (yes, I still get your Vibe). Every now and then, Far Out, Right On, or Can You Dig It may still appear.

One phrase I’ve never given up is: Keep on Truckin’. 

I often use it to end a text or comment. To me, it means keep going, keep moving forward, keep handling whatever life brings next.

And then there’s: Bless your heart.  I use all versions of it—Bless his heart, Bless her heart, Bless their heart. (I know, it drives Margaret crazy.) I think, for me, it is a kind of “I’m sorry this happened/is happening to you.” 

The words we often use say something about where we came from. Mine reflect family habits, different decades, changing times, and my sense of humor. 

So, if you hear me say, Dang, that’s a bummer… keep on truckin’, you’re hearing a little of my history mixed in with my everyday conversation.