Pretending I'm Retired

It seems forever ago and just yesterday that we dropped Jack off for his freshman year at college. My baby. College. I was overwhelmed with an enormous swelling of pride and a feeling of faith that Jack would soon be thriving and experiencing new possibilities. Mixed in with these emotions were a combination of terror (my baby! How will he ever survive without his mommy?) and grief (my baby! I miss him already). I remember distinctly sobbing as we drove back up Route 95 without him. Even though he was just a short drive away, this new life—college!—felt so distant, so full of unknowns. And he would not have me there by his side—he would have to figure out challenges and obstacles alone. Of course, he wasn’t alone. He was soon surrounded by new friends, professors, and coaches who loved and supported him. He studied (sometimes). He figured things out. He navigated through the “new normal” of the pandemic. He learned. And he graduated. After graduation, he came back home to live. Fro

  I tried pickleball once. It didn’t take. It seems I’m in the minority with pickleball courts sprouting up all around me—the pickleball craze is getting crazier by the second. But I stand by my opinion: pickleball is not for me. When I was little, my dad tried to teach me how to play tennis. Multiple times. It didn’t take. I remember once he gave lessons to my entire Girl Scout troop so we could earn a tennis badge. After several tortured weeks of hearing “racquet back early” and “keep your eye on the ball,” I finally sewed the little round emblem onto my sash. And put down my racquet for good. I briefly came out of tennis retirement when I met Paul. I was sitting in my office cubicle when I saw him come out of the bathroom. He had just changed from his suit into his tennis shorts and was heading toward the elevators for an after-work match. And boy, did he look cute in those tennis shorts. When we started dating, he asked me if I knew how to play. “Sure!” I said enthusiasticall

Leather pants—yes or no? I don’t think I could get away with leather pants. I mean, technically I could, but I would be saddled by the kinds of reasonable, rational questions that leather pants-wearing people would never ask—“How much do they cost? Realistically, how often would I wear them? What shoes do I wear? Where does one wear leather pants?” Harper’s Bazaar swears they are “g reat everywhere from the office to a night out,” but I’m a teacher. I spend my days sitting “criss-cross-apple-sauce” on a classroom rug surrounded by cute little five year olds with grubby fingers who are still learning to cover their mouths when they cough.   And a night out? I’m usually wearing pajamas by 8:00 on a Friday night. I’m not out clubbing—I’m eating Ben and Jerry’s watching something on Netflix with my husband while we lament that, back in the old days, TV used to be free and there were only like 5 channels and we didn’t have to budget half our salary for all these new-fangled streaming ser

 Hikes don’t always turn out the way I planned. Maybe I should rephrase that to say hikes never turn out exactly the way I planned. There was the time I got stung by a bee. That time my friend broke her toe and gamely showed up for our hike wearing a soft boot. The multiple times I somehow got off the trail and ended up with a longer hike than expected. Often, the unexpected is joyful. Like rounding the bend of a switchback on a hot day and finding a shady picnic shelter. Like the time Paul and I were hiking down in Roanoke—about three hours from home—and happened to run into a dear friend. Yesterday, Paul and I set off on a five-mile hike around Quiet Waters Park in Annapolis. The first thing we noticed—Quiet Waters wasn’t quiet. Between the maintenance crew with leaf blowers and the construction crew repairing the paved trail, there was plenty of noise. I’ve never seen a “road closed ahead” sign on a trail before…which may be how we got turned around and heading in the wrong dire

I knew it was coming. It does—every single year. And this year is no exception: It’s November. Out with the peak foliage and in with the bare branches. The leftover pickings of Halloween candy are on clearance (Does anyone out there really like Whoppers?) and overnight the aisles were magically transformed with tinsel and evergreens. Around this time of year, I struggle to stay awake in the evenings. Maybe this is a curse of every early bird—our circadian rhythms dance to the beat of no clock. It’s 8:00 pm and I’m fighting to keep my eyes open until a more respectable hour. “Wait,” I think to myself. “Daylight savings time is coming. So then it will really be 9:00 at this time…no, that’s not right.” I’m 52 years old and I still have to whisper, “spring ahead, fall back” to myself. Also, “lefty loosey, righty tighty,” but I digress. 7:00 pm. When Daylight Savings Time takes effect tomorrow, my body is going to want to go to bed at 7:00 pm. I’ve tried talking some sense into my internal

I made the pie yesterday. It’s a caramel, chocolate pecan pie—a family favorite. I know, pumpkin is the traditional Thanksgiving pie. But here’s the thing about traditions—it’s good to stop and look at them occasionally. To think, why are we doing this? Does this still make sense?  For years, I’ve been in charge of the pies. And for years, I’ve brought the traditional pumpkin pie along with the family favorite. I think it’s the perfectionist in me. If we have the picture-perfect Thanksgiving menu, then we will have the picture-perfect Thanksgiving…right? And every year, the caramel, chocolate pecan pie is gobbled up immediately while the pumpkin pie sits forlornly on the kitchen counter for a week next to the coffee pot. Feeling sorry for it, I cut off tiny slivers to nibble on in the mornings while I wait for the coffee to finish brewing. This year, new tradition—no pumpkin pie. You may be wondering why I’m making a Thanksgiving pie in mid-October. Traditionally, Thanksgiving falls on