“How do you identify the barnacles and how do you strip them off?” A kind reader posed this question at the bottom of a recent article of mine on Sixty and Me. I was writing about my friend Terri Ducay…
This morning I wrapped up an article about a new friend, Susan McNamee. Susan, 67, lives here in Denver. In her teens, all she ever wanted to do was be a mom.
Yesterday morning this landed in my inbox from Margaret Manning:
Downsizing (and simplification, more generally) has been a passion of mine over the last several years. And, one of the things that I have discovered through this process is that downsizing isn’t so much about letting go of “stuff” as it is letting go of emotions, memories and psychological barriers to change. So, let’s talk about how to get ready for downsizing at any age. Have you already gone through the process of downsizing your home? Or, are you thinking about doing this in the years to come?
It can get old hearing exhortation after exhortation about exercising. In fact, it’s almost as exhausting reading or hearing about it as doing it. After all, isn’t it just too late at this point?
A recent New York Times article argues that the statistics of violence done to female solo travelers are scary. Women traveling on their own, and there are vastly more of us of all ages now than ever before, are subject to all manner of dangers. We disappear, we get attacked, we die a brutal death.
“Oh my gosh, you are so lucky. I wish I could do that.”
Terri Ducay smiles. I can hear it in her voice. We’re on the phone, talking about her life.
Several weeks ago, a woman commented on an article I’d done about getting older vs. getting old. She told a story about taking a bad fall over a concrete curb, sitting there for a few moments, and then moving on.
My neighbor across the street lost her husband about a year ago. The huge house she now inhabits is an awful lot of work, as is the yard. The other morning after a seven-inch snowfall, our mutual neighbor was clearing her driveway, as he usually does, as I was digging out my own.
Dr. W, an orthopedic surgeon, leaned towards me and launched into a lecture.
“We can’t determine what you need without an x-ray,” he barked, cutting me off in mid-sentence.