Pretending I'm Retired

  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 enthusiasti...

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...

 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 ...

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 fall...

The first thing I’ll say: I’m an early riser. Even when I don’t set my alarm, my body clock wakes me up in the pitch black of morning. Or maybe it’s my bladder. Whatever, I’m up. I like the quiet of mornings. Mostly, I follow the same routine: start the coffee (black) that my husband has prepped the night before. All I do is plug it in and press “brew.” Attached to the coffee pot, there’s usually a sticky note where Paul (my husband) has written a few words…some affectionate thoughts or a silly poem. Go ahead, roll your eyes. But I know you’re jealous that I found a soulmate who still loves me and thinks I’m beautiful after almost 27 years of marriage. While the coffee is brewing, I let Lucky out of her crate. She stumbles out, groggy, and stretches her white-tipped paws along the kitchen floor with her back arching high. I don’t know what kind of dog she is. People say Lab mix but her mom was a Jack Russell Terrier. So, she’s got a Lab face but she’s small—30 something pounds—and ha...

Katherine is in the kitchen. She’s been busy packing. She’s warming up some lunch in the microwave and I come out to the kitchen to sit on the bench seat under the window. “Do you have a minute?” I ask. She looks over at me as she grabs her plate and shuts the microwave door. “Like, a real minute?” she says. I look at the clock. I know she’s busy and in a hurry. But maybe, just maybe, it will help if I say this aloud. “I’m sad,” I tell her. “What are you sad about?” she asks. She squirts ketchup on the side of her plate, grabs her fork, and sits down to eat. I consider her question. “I think it’s a combination of things,” I answer. “You’re leaving for grad school and I’m starting a new job. I’m excited for our new opportunities, but also a little anxious. I feel like summer is ending and I’m not ready for it to end. Like right now, I should be doing some professional development trainings, but I feel like taking a nap.” “I’m sorry, Mom.” Katherine finishes the last of her...