Snide Reply

Tag: retirement

  • Writing Laryngitis

    Writing Laryngitis

    I lost my voice recently. It came on quickly. One day, I was able to speak normally; the next, I was rasping like I’d smoked a pack of cigarettes in my sleep—even though I haven’t had a cigarette in more than 30 years.

    It seemed there was no warning, but there was. Because my life is ridiculous, I am losing hair at a rapid pace (trust me… there is a connection). I mentioned it at my semi-annual skin examination. The dermatologist ordered bloodwork to determine the cause of my hair loss. She didn’t believe it was because my life is ridiculous, though stress can be caused by a ridiculous life, and stress can cause hair loss.

    Because test results are delivered to both me and my provider simultaneously, I frequently review them before my provider can. Everything looked good… except my basophils, which were way out of the normal range. So, I looked up what basophils are and what they do. Yes, I realize normal people don’t do this.

    Basophils, I learned, help the body fight off infections and allergic reactions. The next day, I lost my voice, which seemed to explain the elevated basophils. I concluded it was due to a virulent invader, not sleep-smoking. My boss lost his voice the next day, confirming my self-diagnosis. I resisted the urge to excitedly tell him about my basophil adventure.

    Losing my physical voice was bothersome, but I knew how to bring it back—humidity, hot toddies, and rest.

    However—and this is terrifying—I have lost my writing voice. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say; I have a lot to say. I’m not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that when I sit down to try to write, nothing coherent (at least to me) comes out. I’m probably still recovering from my rapid retirement. Or maybe I’m depressed that Donald Trump is again our president. If you voted for him, well, bless your heart.

    There are other reasons for my lack of written coherence. In fact, there are so many that relating them would only add to my stuckness, at least for now.

    Many a professional writer gives the same advice: sit the hell down and write. I have been sitting the hell down. After weeks of procrastination—months, if I’m being honest—I’m finally sitting in front of my Mac on a mostly daily basis. Ass in chair and fingers on keyboard are the only ways I can hope to feel comfortable doing this again.

    In the meantime, I’ll sit here like a rock and hope that basophils can also cure writer’s laryngitis. And maybe a hot toddy or two.

  • Officially Old

    My husband has been listening to the Beatles lately. He’s also declared that he is very old; he’s 78. That sounds very old if you are not near that age but doesn’t sound old if you are. I’m 66. That sounds old to some, especially my students who think 25 is old but most of them just turned seven.

    I don’t feel old. Even when my body says otherwise, I don’t think of its pains as signs of old age. The stinging pain in my left wrist when I knit is from years of wear and tear which led to arthritis. I’ve already had my right thumb joint reconstructed. Sounds gruesome but it wasn’t that big a deal, for me at least. I’m right-handed, so repair on the other side seemed inevitable. I’ll probably have it reconstructed following a few cortisone shots.

    If you’re astute, you’ve figured out that “years of wear and tear” absolutely happened because I’ve been on the planet for ages, ergo, I am aged. Things that are aged are, by definition, old. Some might say age brings improvement. But I am not a bottle of wine. And I don’t think of 66 as being particularly old.

    What drives home my age is realizing that I don’t have much more time to age. The inevitable result of continuing to live and age is that I will die. No, we never know when we will die, there being busses still on the roads and all, but I can say with certainty that I will probably die in the next two or two and a half decades.

    So, when my husband pointed out that Paul McCarney’s “Martha My Dear” was named for his dog, I realized time was running out on my dream of finally owning a small dog. I found it quite reasonable to say, “That reminds me, you have to get me a small dog before I die!”

    I officially retired in May 2024; it’s time to bring out the bucket list. Except, the older one gets, the less the bucket can accommodate. There are only so many trips to Scotland/Denmark/China that I can afford. There are only so many books I can write and only so many cute little dogs I can love.

    My bucket is leaking time and the items on its list. I’ve started a book, but I probably won’t go to China; I’ve been twice already. Denmark might have to move to third on the list; great-great grandpa’s cousins will have to settle for meeting my father and older sister. Great-great-granddad sold away the family castle anyway.

    Scotland remains a dream, cost being the biggest factor. My ancestors are all from the same place, but not one easily reached. In fact, it’s only on maps because of nearby Pictish ruins left by people who lived in Scotland eons ago. Though the Pictish derivation of the word “pixie” has been discarded by many, I like the idea of being descended from a mysterious fairy folk.

    Whether I visit living relatives in Denmark or dead ones in Scotland will depend on many variables. I may or may not get to either. But I know one thing for sure: I am getting that damn little dog!