Author Archives: Sherri

Golf Part 2

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In my last essay, I began the story of how Trish and I gave into pressure and willingly undertook learning to play golf. What finally got us over the first hurdle was the opportunity to take lessons at our Golf Club (where we have done everything BUT play golf for the past two years) as guests of golfing friends. I took you through my paralyzing perfectionism as I geared up for that first lesson. This time, we’ll talk about how all that turned out.

The lessons took the form of five once-a-week, hour-and-a-half sessions. During the first four sessions, we’d tackle one aspect of the game. The capstone in Week 5 was going out on the course and playing a five-hole scramble. That first Thursday afternoon was a scorcher—90 degrees in the shade in April! Trish and I had on our dress-code-approved golf ensembles and dropped off our clubs with the golf staff as we drove on site. So far so good. The pros split us into two groups and LouAnn and I were assigned to the “putting” group. Excellent first challenge for me, since I have played Putt Putt my whole life and had some comfort there. Trish and Kristin went with the driving range group to practice with irons and fairway woods. Trish has no fear. None. She just wants to have fun—a much better core competence than my perfectionism. When told to grab a fairway wood out of her bag, Trish grabbed her driver. She calls it her Fred Flintstone club because it has such a large head. The woman has a MONSTER drive! And she was not hitting off a tee! She just has fun smacking a golf ball. In fact, she would use her driver everywhere on the course if she could—including putting.

The rest of our lessons were a challenge, weather-wise. After that first 90 degree day, “Spring” in PA returned and we were in the 60’s at best. With some wind.  A lot of wind.  Like I needed something ELSE to add to my anxiety. The second week, LouAnn and I worked on our drivers and fairway woods.  Have you ever hit balls for an hour and a half after not having really hit balls for decades? The pro came around occasionally to give tips but I think he quickly realized he could have more impact elsewhere.  LouAnn continued to be my patient partner and coach.  There were a few good shots in there, but as I tired, I became a bit of a liability—especially since the Club’s driving range has no barrier between stations.  After the second time I almost hit the person next to me, I decided a water break was in order.

Week 3 brought the driving range again, with a focus on driving off a tee.  For an hour and a half.  Again, there were a few good hits.  And this is the thing about golf: You can hit the ball 25 times and 24 of those hits will be pathetic.  But that one good shot!  That one good shot is like crack.  You hit that ONE drive straight, with decent loft and with good distance and you think, “Yesssss.  I can do this.”  And that’s why you keep coming back.

Week 4 was a pleasant surprise.  For some unknown reason, I have a pretty good short game!  Actually, I know the reason.  Control.  Pitching wedges are short; you stand very close to the ball; and, your swing is kind of a halfway punch.  I can control that.  I was getting excellent loft time and again, dropping the ball onto the green.  One of our friends even said she watched my stance and swing to try to imitate it.  I play that over and over in my mind like a little kid who got their first gold star in kindergarten!  Contrast that with driving.  The club shaft is super long.  When I line up for a drive I feel like the club head is in the next county!  I think I instinctively shut my eyes on the down swing because I’m so afraid of what will happen!  Trish and I will be excellent partners in a scramble game.  Between her drive and my short game, we make one decent golfer!

Then came Week 5.  Course play.  The nerves were back because you only get that one swing.  Although the groups were spread out on the course for a shotgun start, LouAnn and I had a foursome behind us on Hole 1.  That meant I had to tee off with a bunch of people watching me.  And you know what? I hit an excellent tee shot!  My only good one of the day, but that was excellent timing.  I am sure my Dad and my mother-in-law were guiding that club head from above.  Took all the pressure off.  LouAnn and I had a blast! We were tooling around in the golf cart, talking and laughing.  LouAnn was coaching me up on golf course etiquette and continually encouraging me, even when the ball dribbled 20 feet to the left.  I would say I hit at least one good shot of each type: one good drive; one decent fairway shot; several excellent sand and wedge shots; one superb putt.  I’m hooked!

At the dinner afterwards, I felt wonderful!  And it was more than the cosmo that I drank on an empty stomach.  I finally felt like I belonged with this group of women at that Club.  I had on golf clothes.  I had hat hair.  I was laughing about course play.  But then it occurred to me that I always belonged.  I was just focusing on how I was different, not how I was the same.  Clearly that’s been an issue for me my whole life—hyper awareness of my differences.  I am gay in a straight world; Jewish in a predominantly Christian country; a chemist at an engineering firm; a woman in a male dominated field.  But there are also many ways I am like those around me, too, and I mean more than an affinity for vodka martinis.  I have spent my life on the outside looking in by choice, not because it’s been forced on me.  Time to let myself inside.  We all have a lot more in common than we think.  We just have to look for it and focus on that instead of the differences.  In fact, when you do that, the differences just become a chance to learn something.  I think we could all use a little more of that right now.

Me?  I’m headed back to the driving range.  Because what I REALLY want to have in common with these ladies is a good tee shot.

Golf Part 1

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My regular readers may remember that I’ve written a few themed series of essays over the years. These multi-part arcs covered a particular topic that was important in my life at the time—Transitioning to Retirement; Losing Weight. Those essays, though, were always about a lot more than the titular subject. Transitioning to Retirement involved much more than just turning in my employee badge. Losing Weight involved a whole lot more than the process of restricting calories. We are about to start a new arc, on learning to play golf. And I can tell you, this will be about so much more than just the mechanics of swinging a club.

I have long been fascinated and intimidated by golf. It started with a cartoon that a friend at work had on her office door that showed a caveman holding a stick with a triangle-shaped rock strapped to the end and a round rock on the ground near a hole. The caveman pondered the situation, thinking, “I bet I could hit that rock with this stick and it would go into that hole.” The cartoon was titled, “How Man Learned to Swear.” My exposure to golf started much younger. As a kid, I was taught to swing a club at summer camp when I was eight. I am left handed and I was taught right handed because of course I was. I’ve used that as a convenient excuse ever since for why I suck at golf. Then, there were a smattering of obligatory work golf outings. And when I lived in Mexico, I lived in a gated golf community where greens fees were included in my rent. I bought a set of clubs before I moved down and in three years played a grand total of 27 holes. I figured golf just wasn’t for me.

Why learn to play now? Well, I’ve mentioned that Trish and I joined a golf club, right? We joined as “dining members” two years ago and little by little have availed ourselves of everything the club has to offer, except golf. Trish plays bridge. We both bowl, play Mahjong, and participate in the book club. Plus we attend a myriad of other social events at the club. We’ve gotten to know a lot of people through all these activities (and by “we” I mean mostly Trish and then I get to tag along). The pressure to play golf has been constant and increasing from Day One.

The more I thought about it, the more I thought golf would be the PERFECT hobby for me to dive into as I approach my 64th birthday. I have the time and, fortunately, the resources to really give this a “go” now. Golf is definitely one of those things that you have to put the time into if you want to improve. I never had the time or physical energy while I was still working. “But, Sherri,” some smart ass is saying, “haven’t you been retired for almost 10 years now?” Well, yes, but that brings us to the other barrier. My long time readers also know I suffer from crushing perfectionism and a need to be good at everything I do. In many ways, those tendencies have served me well over the years. Not so much if you are a beginner at golf. My sometimes-crippling insecurity doesn’t help, either. However, I am committed to a few very important things in my life right now: challenging myself with new activities so I don’t stagnate; staying physically active as much as possible as long as possible; and, enriching my life by being more social. Golf fits all three of those goals.

I must give a big shout out to our friends LouAnn and Kristin who invited us to join them for a series of Member-Guest lessons with the club’s pros. When they asked us, I almost immediately said YES, not because I was finally ready to tackle this challenge but because I knew committing would MAKE me tackle this challenge. My partner, LouAnn, was infinitely patient and encouraging. My guardian angels clearly sent her to take care of me through this! But before we could start the lessons, there were some “pre-steps.”

First I had to figure out if I should swing left handed or right handed. I purchased (“purchase” being a key word related to anything “golf”) a lesson with the pro at the local Golf Galaxy who determined I should stay right handed. That has got to be one of those jobs that comes with a prescription for Xanax. He was so calm, as I almost took down the simulator with a wayward smack of the ball. None of my swings sent the ball more than 45 yards and, had I not been in the simulator, would have taken out every customer browsing the sale racks to my left. I had some work to do. I won’t even discuss what happened when I tried to swing left handed. “Your right handed swing isn’t that bad,” he deadpanned. “We can work with that.”

A friend from the club graciously gave me her old set of clubs and I headed to a local driving range before our first lesson. There is a reason those ranges have barriers between the stations. It takes a certain skill to hit the ball 90 degrees to the right, taking out the bucket of balls, hitting the barrier, and ricocheting behind me to hit the barrier on the left side. Mad skills, just not the right ones. The picture that accompanies this essay is actually the art on a t-shirt that I bet Trish will get me for my birthday. Over thinking is a core competence of mine and one that does not serve you well in golf.

After a $300 shopping spree at the PGA Superstore (the shopping aspects of golf will be the subject of a future essay), I was ready for my first member-guest lesson! I had the gear. I looked for all the world like a golfer! I was smiley and chatty as we gathered for a pre-lesson drink. Inside, I was petrified. We’ll pick up on how those lessons went next time.

Compassion

I was having lunch with a wise friend recently and we were discussing my lack of publishing.  I know you are tired of hearing that I have “a lot going on,” but it’s been more true than I would care to acknowledge. The reality is that I haven’t stopped writing. I just haven’t been publishing.  Mostly, I’ve been writing in my journal.  Said wise friend encouraged me to keep drafting essays, even if I had no intention of publishing them.  Writing is therapeutic for me.  This one made it out of purgatory.

I’ve been thinking about the subject of compassion a lot these days.  Due to a combination of isolation from the pandemic, social media driving further isolation, and our frankly f’ed up political environment, I feel like “compassion” has become an old fashioned concept.  And it’s bothered me.  A lot.

I’ve noodled on why people’s “compassion” muscles have atrophied.  Or maybe never developed.  I have several theories, none of which are backed up by any scholarly research since I’m a bit too lazy to Google (or ChatGPT) the topic and read up.  I just have thoughts.  The biggest reason I think we’ve lost a societal sense of compassion is that we’ve stopped seeing people as human beings.  Some of this has been driven by our political and media environment.  The Powers That Be have become pretty good at convincing us to see anyone who looks or thinks differently from us as some inhuman “other” that must be hated and destroyed.  I try not to get too political in these essays, so let me focus on one aspect of this tendency.  To use an example, if someone who is like us happens to commit a heinous crime, our reaction is to think, “That is a bad person who needs to get help and/or get locked up.”  We do not say “all (fill in the blank) people need to be locked up or thrown out” because we know that not all people like us are bad.  That one particular person is bad.  However, there is a tendency to paint entire classes of people as “bad” if that class is different from us and someone conveniently describes them solely by that difference.  I don’t believe I need to give examples.  You are all smart people.  You know what I mean.  For this to be effective, though, you need to dehumanize the “other.” 

Compassion arises when you see someone as fully human.  And when you can empathize with them.  “Care for the stranger,” our Judeo-Christian tradition teaches, “because you were once a stranger in Egypt.”  I, for example, have made it a point throughout most of my adult life to be as “out” as I can be, since the gay community was totally dehumanized and persecuted in my youth.  Hearts and minds changed as more people “came out” and everyone could start to point to someone they liked and cared about who was gay.

Isolation, from both the pandemic and the changes in our social structure led by social media, unfortunately have built on this dehumanization theme.  Even those who don’t isolate but stay within a very homogeneous bubble risk this.  I’ll say it again:  dehumanization of people different from you leads to a lack of compassion and I have to believe that leads to unhappy souls.  We all need connection.  As I’ve written, that’s a good part of what led Trish and I to very purposefully build a strong sense of community connection.  And it’s that community and the connections we built from it that led to the story that sparked this essay.  Let’s see how much of this story makes it through the editing process since Trish is both the subject of this tale and my editor.

I have said more than once that I truly “married up.”  There are a number of reasons I think this, but one of the main ones is what a strongly compassionate person Trish is.  She is very compassionate by nature but also because she is so comfortable in her own skin.  I admit to putting up a fearful wall around people I don’t know well.  What I’m afraid of is probably a discussion for another time, but it keeps me from making the deep connections that Trish makes so easily.  I can understand how fear—fear of being hurt, of being taken advantage of, of being asked to do more than one is willing to do—can keep people from acting compassionately toward others.  But that doesn’t happen with Trish.

Trish has developed tight connections to a number of members of our new communities, but few more so than one couple at our synagogue.  Over the last several weeks, they have had to navigate the decline and, as of the morning of the day I am drafting this essay, the passing of one of the pair.  Without family nearby and with a bit of a language barrier, there was a lot for the pair to deal with—particularly navigating our healthcare system and managing through hospice, but also with the emotional toll of this journey.  We all knew they needed help.  We all knew they needed support.  Many were willing to do something.  Trish is the one who was willing to do anything.  She was literally there day and night for a couple of weeks.  It was where she wanted and needed to be.  She recoiled at people telling her she was an angel or giving her other accolades.  It truly made her uncomfortable.  She was just doing what her heart told her to do and she did it with joy.  Did it tax her and exhaust her?  Yes.  But her strong sense of compassion would have it no other way.  I don’t think I could have done what she did.  I would have been too afraid.  Fred Rogers, I believe, said something like, “In difficult times, look for the helpers.” It’s a reminder that good exists, which we all need to see in tough times like these.  Compassion isn’t dead.  I married it.

We can all resolve to face our fears head on and look for ways to be more compassionate.  Start by questioning yourself when you find yourself dehumanizing “others.”  Then allow yourself to help, even a little bit, when someone needs it.  It can be as little as looking someone in the eye and smiling, as big as holding someone’s hand when they pass away, or a million other little actions and thoughts that fall somewhere in between.  Be the helper that everyone looks for in these tough times.  See the humanity in all those around you.  Be compassionate.

Stay in Your Own Lane

It happened again today.  There is this young woman that comes to my spin classes on occasion.  She seems very nice.  Everyone, including the instructors, seem to know and like her.  However, she seems to be interested in everything except exercising. She usually comes in 15-20 minutes late for a 45 minute class, loaded down with all manner of bags and water bottles. She is always dressed in high quality, matching workout outfits (unlike me, who is always dressed in whichever t-shirt and leggings have made it to the top of “the rotation” that day).  Like me, she seems to prefer bikes in the front row, right in front of the instructor, which usually are the last taken. As such, she is often next to me or in my line of sight. She drops her belongings, takes her time setting her bike and getting on, then spends the next few minutes updating her chats on text before settling her phone on the shelf between the handle bars. I have never seen this woman break a sweat. I have never seen her even breathe hard. She occasionally follows the instructor’s directions, but usually does her own thing and spends more time texting than anything else. 

This bugs the crap out of me! Here I am, sweating away, pushing as hard as I can and watching her do anything but workout. As I find myself getting more and more agitated about her, the self-talk begins. “What do you care, Sherri? The quality of your workout has nothing to do with whatever she does. Stay in your own lane.” The Y is a very chill place. As long as she’s not hurting herself or someone else, whatever she chooses to do should not affect my workout. But it bugs me.

We seem to have a bit of an epidemic these days of people telling other people how to live their lives, what to think, how to feel.  It’s nothing new, honestly.  I am old enough to have watched the TV show “All in the Family” growing up.  That show would never fly today because people would immediately clutch their pearls and hyperventilate over all the bigoted/racist/antisemitic/generally intolerant things Archie would say and yet completely miss the loving and inclusive message that the episode was ultimately sending.  Anyway, one of my favorite clips from the show perfectly illustrates the point I want to make in this essay.  Gift yourself the three minutes and watch it here.  The gist of the skit is that Archie and Michael/Meathead are late to get to a fishing expedition and Meathead has to hurry to get dressed.  Archie goes nuts when Meathead puts on a sock and shoe before going on to the other foot.  A spirited debate ensues about the “right” way to put on socks and shoes.  Meathead is a sock/shoe adherent; Archie is a sock/sock/shoe/shoe guy.  Throughout the skit, they both bring up “convincing” arguments about why their way is the right way, or at least better.  What makes the skit funny is that we all know there isn’t a “right” way.  There is just a preferred way.  (For the record, I’m generally a sock/shoe kind of girl.)

I think it’s generally human nature to want everyone to make the same choices you make, exhibit the same behaviors you exhibit, go through life exactly as you choose to go through life.  When I write it down like that, it sounds ridiculous.  But you know you do it, too!  We like our own choices and preferences so, by definition, they must be the best, right?  Can’t everyone see that?

Just as obviously, we all know that isn’t true.  A small businessman I know once said something to the effect that “only losers work for large corporations.  If you want to have a real career, you should run your own business.”   My first reaction was to feel inferior as someone who spent her whole career inside multibillion dollar corporations.  But about two milliseconds later, I realized how ridiculous that reaction was!  First of all, I am so NOT an entrepreneur.  I don’t have the ideas, nor the courage, nor the persistence to make a go of starting up my own business.  However, I worked really well (ok, reasonably well) inside large corporations.  That environment fit me well.  And last I checked, we actually DO need large corporations for a lot of what makes life possible.  We also need a ton of small businesses.  YOUR choice does not need to be EVERYONE’S choice.  In fact, it would be a negative if everyone made the same choices.  If we all know this to be true, why are we so judgy about other people’s choices?

I barely understand why I do it myself, so I’ll focus there.  One reason is righteousness combined with insecurity.  To continue with our spin class analogy, while I feel I work hard, I see many others around me (usually a lot younger) who spin faster and at higher gears.  The best way to deal with my own insecurity about not working hard enough is to beat up on someone working out less hard than I do.  Another reason, honestly, is ignorance.  I have lived a wonderful life so far, but my experiences are pretty narrow considering the huge breadth in life experiences out there.  I judge others through the prism of my own experience, forgetting my own motto about being careful about assumptions.  Maybe that woman has been dealing with a physical or mental challenge that makes it a huge achievement to simply get herself to the Y and get to a class.  Maybe she’s working her way back to health, a condition that I take for granted.  And even if she is just a lazy worker outer, who cares?  Her choices do not affect me unless I choose to get bugged by them.

The difficulty here is that sometimes the choices others make DO affect your life.  To use the opposite meaning of “stay in your own lane,” if someone literally does not stay in their own lane while driving, people can get hurt.  Rules of the road exist for a reason.  Same with Standard Operating Procedures at a chemical plant or check lists that pilots go through before takeoff.  Those examples are important but let’s not kid ourselves:  those instances are rare and focused.  Most of the vitriol that I see in the news these days is intolerance of different ideas.  It can be really hard to admit to yourself that you are merely hiding behind faux moral outrage when it’s just your own discomfort or lack of exposure to something different.  I try really hard to take a deep breath and not force the world to run according to my preferences.  It’s not easy nor am I always successful.  Learning trust and humility and not centering the world on yourself takes effort.  I do, of course, have more thoughts on this.  In the meantime, though, just try to stay in your own lane.

Shabbat Shuvah

I have been struggling to write lately.  There is an essay I’ve been working on for too long now that just won’t “get there.”  It’s on a bit of a touchy topic, so I’m trying to thread the needle on how I approach it and make it at least a little funny.  I have not been successful.  My editor tore up my latest attempt yesterday and, as she did so, looked at me sideways and said, “Do better.”  She’s right. 

Yes, I’ve been busy and there’s been personal stuff going on that has occupied my thoughts.  Moreso, though, like most of us I’ve been increasingly distressed by all the negativity in the news.  Trish and I were talking about it on the way to synagogue this morning.  We both have this general crankiness going on that doesn’t seem to be relieved by anything.  We talked about what to do about it.  We have both been, shall we say, negligent with respect to exercise lately and know that a good hard workout goes a long way.  But you know what else helps?  Going to synagogue.

We are in the midst of the Jewish High Holy Days, which began at sundown this past Monday with the start of Rosh Hashanah and end at sundown next Thursday when we break the fast on Yom Kippur.  Except it doesn’t really end there.  We move directly into Sukkot and then Shemini Atzeret and then Simchas Torah.  Crunch time on the Jewish calendar!  But these 10 days, the Days of Awe, are for me the most important days of the year.  It’s when I take stock and think about the choices I’ve made, the ways I have behaved, and how I want to grow.  Compounding all this introspection is the fact that my father passed one week and one day after Yom Kippur 15 years ago.  Rosh Hashanah brings with it memories of sitting on a park bench after services, arranging hospice care aides to help Mom take care of him during the final steps of his journey. Shabbat Shuvah reminds me of getting on a plane to head home. Yom Kippur brings memories of holding Dad’s hand while he lay in his hospital bed in their apartment, praying Kol Nidre with him.  The High Holidays will forever be bound up in powerful memories of him even as his devotion to his faith and synagogue life are with me year round.

As such, this Shabbat, the one that falls between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, has become a favorite of mine. The best analogy I can think of is the morning after a big party in college when your crew would get together for a lazy brunch.  Everyone is tired.  We just spent a LOT of time together.  It was intense.  But there is something nice about hanging together on a “regular” morning, rehashing the previous festivities.  Shabbat Shuvah, as this Shabbat is known, means “Shabbat of Return.”  I won’t get into the Torah references that give it its name, but it also has that feeling of “returning to the scene of the crime.”  (Forgive me, Rabbi!)  It tends to be sparsely attended because we have just spent two full—and I mean FULL—days in synagogue together and we’ve got a biggy coming up (Yom Kippur).  Usually just the regulars attend.  The Rabbi and Cantor are a bit subdued, because they are tired and preparing for what is coming ahead.  The service is a “standard” Shabbat service, yet you add in a few prayers here and there that remind you that you are in the midst of Holy Week.  The service feels really short in comparison to the length of services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  For some reason, though, it just feels…special.

Because attendance is somewhat light, I often get an honor on this Shabbat, meaning I am asked to take a role in the service.  This Shabbat Shuvah was no exception.  (Thanks, Andrea!)  I got in the habit many years ago of making little notes in my copy of the Chumash (the book that contains the Five Book of Moses along with commentary and other writings) of the honors I receive during services.  My copy is littered with notes from honors on Shabbat Shuvah:  carrying the Torah before or after the readings; aliyot, when you say blessings before and after a section is read; dressing the Torah to prepare to put it back in the ark.  Participation makes the service even more special.  Makes it “mine.”

There is something about the familiarity and rhythm of the service that calms me down and stills my mind.  More important are the messages from the prayers, Torah portions, and the Rabbi’s sermon that remind me that my world doesn’t have to revolve around the news cycle.  There is more that I control than I think, particularly around where I choose to put my focus.  Shabbat reminds me of what our covenant with God expects of me and that helps me reorder the priorities in my mind.  Who needs to hear “I love you” today?  Who needs a helping hand?  What can I be doing to fulfill my obligations around “tikkun olam”—healing the world?

Next weekend I’ll be down in Atlanta, recognizing my Dad’s yahrzeit—the anniversary (on the Jewish calendar) of his passing.  We’ll watch the livestream from my synagogue and say the Mourner’s Kaddish as the Rabbi reads Dad’s name from the list of those we’ll remember the following week.  I’m going to deprioritize fretting over the news cycle, at least for these next couple of weeks.  Then maybe I’ll be able to get myself back in the gym.  And finish that other essay!

Pace Yourself

I’m exhausted. In a good way. It’s early on a Friday morning and this is the first “normal” morning I’ve had in a while. I kicked the cats out of the bedroom at 4:30 AM when Bridget started gnawing on my hand and Baxter started gnawing on my hair. (They do this to me instead of Trish because they know I get up first.) I dozed until about 5:45. Fed them. Fed myself. Caught up in the morning’s newsletters. Drank coffee. Hopefully, there will be some form of exercise later. That used to be a morning routine that stretched uninterrupted for weeks. Now that Trish and I have put an emphasis on building more community, these quiet days have become more rare and I’m tired. Clearly, I have to pace myself. I’m not as young as I used to be.

As I’ve written about before, the pandemic years were not exactly difficult for Trish and me. We are both homebodies. We enjoy each other’s company as well as have the ability to move to separate parts of the house and enjoy our individual time. We were kind of happy holing up at home. Until we weren’t. As happens when you have a little too much time to think and talk, we made some decisions about how we wanted to live our lives going forward. We talked about what was important in being able to age with continued good health, both physically and mentally. We knew we wanted to travel more, which is the one thing we really missed during the pandemic (not to mention the four different Viking cruises we serially cancelled over the past five years for a range of reasons; that deserves it’s own essay). We have a great group of friends but we’re all a little dispersed geographically. We felt we needed more local community.

Interspersed with regular trips to Atlanta to visit my Mom and sister (and help care for my Mom), Trish and I started involving ourselves in other local things outside of the Y. I wrote last time about affiliating with a local synagogue. Related to that is Trish’s journey toward conversion to Judaism. We also joined a local golf club, although we don’t play golf (yet). You will read much more about The Club. It still cracks me up to read those words: “we joined a golf club.” Anyway, I think we’ve both hit a wall and need to dial it back a bit. Here’s a smidge of what the past month was like:

We finally completed a Viking cruise, around Iceland, at the end of June. It was a fabulous trip, complete with travel nightmares that make great stories, beautiful vistas, fun and interesting people, and many Cosmos. Unlike our trip to Alaska last year, we did not come home with COVID, but being People of a Certain Age we needed at least a week to recover from the exhaustion of the trip. We didn’t get that. First, the requisite appointments: haircuts; dermatologist; glaucoma specialist. There were lunches with friends, new and old. There was the Lisa Scottoline book tour for her new book (she actually remembered us!). There were Shabbat Services and our tendency to close down the Kiddush afterwards. A trip to the DC area to spend time with my cousin for a weekend. And then I headed to Atlanta for five days to see my Mom and sister.

During this time, I also wrote the essays on old friends and reconnecting which led to, surprise, outreach to and from old friends and reconnecting! There was dinner and a movie; a few more lunches with friends; and another medical appointment for good measure. (Trish was smart enough to catch a summer cold in the midst of all this and get a few days rest.) I needed another haircut by then, followed by a trip up the Valley for our financial advisor’s client event (more reconnections and a late night). A late dinner the next night was followed by a lunch yesterday.

A consequence of all this fun is throwing me off any semblance of schedule. And I do love a routine! A night out leads, often, to a restless sleep which leads to a decision to be kind to myself and not go to the Y. Not enough exercise tends to mean more bad sleep and more “being kind to myself,” which has resulted in around 10 hard won pounds returning to my now squishy belly, which leads to drama-inducing monthly weigh-ins at Weight Watchers. This moderate weight gain is exacerbated, of course, by all the eating out and attendant Cosmos. It used to be that whenever we went out, it was a “treat” day because we went out so infrequently. Now I have multiple “treat” days a week which is not good for my energy level nor my waistline. They are “happy pounds,” I know, which are better than “depressed pounds,” but I don’t like it.

“Oh, poor you!” I hear you thinking, as the world’s tiniest violin plays a song. Don’t get me wrong! I am thrilled about having a busier, more varied schedule. I just want to make sure I can really enjoy it. You see, ten or fifteen years ago, that schedule would not have been a problem. I was used to being on the go all the time. But I had a tendency to just go from one thing to the next: work to gym to dinner out to business trip to Atlanta trip. I’m truly not sure how much I enjoyed any of it because, 10-15 years ago, I was living more to get to something in the future. The old “I’ll be happy when…” thinking. If I just kept moving, if I just kept busy, I would eventually land on that thing that would make me happy. I guess I did, because I absolutely love my life now! I want to savor it; enjoy every part. Be present for every minute of every Shabbat Service and the socializing afterwards; enjoy every minute of every lunch and dinner out since they are always with people I have chosen to be with and that are important to me; treasure every trip to Atlanta to see my Mom and sister.

I wouldn’t change a thing. I don’t want to go back to the very quiet schedule we had during the pandemic and shortly thereafter. And that’s a good thing, because the schedule going forward is as packed as the last month. I love the richness we’ve brought into our lives. We just need to give ourselves a little more grace to enjoy this busy retirement schedule. We need to pace ourselves better.

Why I Go to Shabbat Services

Trish and I have become regulars at Shabbat services Saturday morning at the synagogue we joined last year. The services are typically about 2 ½ hours long. When I tell non-Jewish friends that we go to a weekly service of that length, they are usually incredulous. When I tell my Jewish friends we go early, they typically say, “You go for the WHOLE service?” You see, Jews tend to wander into Shabbat services whenever they want and that “whenever” is rarely right at the beginning. Let me explain why we go. Or, at least, why I go for the whole service. Trish has her own reasons and that is for her to tell. (Maybe a guest essay on the blog? Encourage her!)

1) Safety and familiarity. Those of you who have been around a bit may remember my essay, The Holiness of Barbie. If you haven’t read it yet, I encourage you to do so. It’s a good prologue to this essay and I don’t want to repeat my personal Jewish history here. In many ways, I’m going to pick up where that essay left off. When I moved in with Trish almost ten years ago now, I let my affiliation with the synagogue I had attended in Allentown lapse since the drive was just too long to be practical. I had thought about affiliating down here, but Trish wasn’t Jewish and, although she was certainly supportive of my participation, I didn’t want to become part of a community that she wasn’t engaged with. Besides, we were just starting our life together and there was a lot of new stuff to get comfortable with.

Years went by and although I kept thinking about finding a local synagogue, I didn’t take action. I was really traumatized by the massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh. In fact, I penned an essay on that which led to me starting this blog. (Read it here.) Trish and I went to a local shul for a service around that tragedy, but I went no further. Then October 7, 2023 happened. I was shaken to my core on that one. That event along with rising antisemitism in this country and the world left me craving the safety of Jewish community. When I say “safety,” I don’t just mean the armed guards at the door—although we DO have armed guards there for every service. I mean emotional safety.

As I wrote in the Barbie essay, we attended services regularly when I was growing up. While each congregation has their own particular flow of the service, the variations are relatively narrow. There may be different choices on certain prayers and different tunes used for some parts, but in general if you go to services at a Conservative synagogue, everything will feel very familiar, and that familiarity is a big reason I go.

I feel my father’s presence so strongly during services. As I sing the familiar tunes, I can hear him beside me singing along. I vividly remember sitting next to him on those Saturday mornings, bored out of my mind. I would play with the fringes on his tallis, wondering how much longer until we could get to the Kiddush lunch afterwards. Bored though I was as a little girl (and I’m not bored now!), going to services brings back that comfort of childhood and family. I know Dad would be so happy that I’m going to services regularly again and I know he would be so proud if I could work up the courage to read from the Torah. That’s a whole different journey that we will tackle in time.

2) A feeling of peace and sanctuary That connection to my childhood is a good part of the reason I go to services at all. I go so early because of my need for peace and sanctuary. There is just something about sliding into “prayer mode”. When we get there, Trish and I pause outside the chapel, say a blessing, and put on our tallitot (prayer shawls). Just the act of donning my tallis separates my mind from everything else in the world and puts me in the zone. Those early prayers are quiet and meditative and I let my mind go wherever it needs to go. Just being there, listening to the rabbi and cantor, reinforces that we are part of something much bigger than ourselves. It’s humbling. It’s a reminder of the need to put life into perspective and remember your role as a human—to BE human. You get this sense of sanctuary and peace in lots of places. Some go out in nature. Some volunteer in their community. I’m not saying you need organized religion to find it. I’m encouraging you to find it SOMEWHERE.

3) Community This is perhaps the biggest reason I go. It’s what drove me back after October 7th. We were drawn into the Temple Sinai community from the first day we walked in that door. As we’ve become regulars, we have gotten to know the other regulars. After Shabbat services, there is a light lunch called a Kiddush and we’ve started to become the ones who close the place down. We sit and talk, share stories, get to know the other members of this community. There’s just something about feeling part of a larger whole, and the accountability that comes with it. I was welcomed back this week after having been in Atlanta last weekend. I was gone one week. But I was missed. Trish and I are, of course, starting to get involved in other activities at the synagogue. We are drawn to helping out, to giving back. And there is no shortage of opportunities.

There is a lot in the popular press these days about the various ills facing our society. I am one of those who feel that a loss of community has been a big contributor to our current problems. We’ve become a very “self”-centered society. The pandemic only worsened an existing trend. Stuck indoors with just our immediate family (if that), we seem to have forgotten that the world does not revolve solely around our own needs. Hey, I’m all for freedom. But when your freedom is expressed without regard for the needs of the broader community, you have anarchy. We need to feel a sense of responsibility for and toward each other again. Honestly, it’s what makes life worth living anyway. I have a whole lot more to say about community. What I will end on today is my gratitude that we’ve found a community (or two!) that gives us that grounding that we need. And, for my Jewish friends, we get to help make a minyan! (Wink)

Be Kind

It seems that my last essay on reconnecting with people from the past hit a nerve. It has been one of my most widely read essays in quite a while. It also led to a lot of outreach across platforms and some heartfelt discussion. Those discussions led directly to this topic, which is why you are getting another essay so soon. I promise not to pollute your Inbox too frequently! I’m usually not this motivated.

I toyed with several titles for this essay. It could have been “You Never Know What Impact You’ll Make” or “Think Before You Act,” but those titles didn’t capture what I was after. I wanted to discuss how little interactions can have a big impact and most of the time, you just don’t realize it. In fact, you may NEVER realize it unless the other person tells you. It’s a reminder to me to treat everyone with respect because you just never know. Well, and also because treating people with respect is the right thing to do. I pulled the title of this essay from a T-shirt I keep seeing on Facebook: “When you can be anything, be kind.”

To illustrate what I mean, I’m going to share a story from the 1990’s. I had gone home to Atlanta for a visit after a particularly brutal romantic break up. Mom and I decided to go out for a mother/daughter day, which was kind of rare for us. We saw a movie. Did a little shopping. Then we went out for lunch, during which we slowly and painfully deconstructed the relationship. After a while, when we were both talked out, Mom sighed and said, “Honey, maybe next time you’ll find a nice Jewish girl.” I had only come out to my family maybe six years before and there was still a lot of “learning to accept” going on. That was a different time, when people were routinely disowned by family for coming out and when people like me had a very hard time accepting who they were. (People certainly still struggle today and, unfortunately, get disowned but it’s much rarer.) With that comment, I knew that my Mom totally accepted me and loved me for exactly who I was/am. She didn’t say, “Maybe this gay thing is a phase.” As far as she was concerned, that particular discussion was over. She was focused on what might give a future relationship a better chance at success and, being a good Jewish Mom, felt that finding someone who shared my religious and cultural background would be a better bet. That one little statement meant more to me than she could ever know. And, yet, when I related that story to Mom a few years ago, she had no recollection of it. It was not necessarily memorable or impactful for her; it was life changing for me. And that is our thesis today: you just never know when you are going to have a big impact on someone.

Trish has a similar story. A few years ago, she reconnected with a high school friend. As they were talking, this friend told her how much she appreciated Trish standing up for her when someone lobbed an antisemitic remark her way. In fact, it was one of the first things she brought up when they started talking because it was so meaningful to her. “I will never forget how you stood up for me,” she said. Trish had no recollection of the event, but she was very glad she did it!

I’m much more conscious, now, of taking opportunities to tell people how much I appreciate something they said to me or did for me. Sometimes the “thing” is small; other times it’s pretty big. My long time readers will know that when I came back to the US after a 3 year expat assignment in Mexico, I came back into a very big job. I struggled in that role for a range of reasons but 9/11 and the subsequent recession’s impact on business conditions didn’t help. I spent a number of years resentful that I didn’t get more coaching or didn’t get some other opportunity that I’d wanted, but time gave me some valuable perspective. Sure, I needed more from my boss but, more than anything else, he took a chance on me; he gave me an opportunity that most others wouldn’t have given me. He believed in me. Before he left the area after retirement, I shared a beer with him and I thanked him for that because it set me on what ultimately was a good path. I learned to say Thank You without having to qualify it.

It’s not just people you know, either. Every day we cross paths with innumerable strangers. Trish and I both try to catch people’s eyes, make a little connection, say something nice. You never know when that little interaction can make all the difference in someone’s day. Engage in little discussions in the cat food aisle, sharing stories about how your cats never eat the same food twice. Make her laugh by saying, “Damn cats.” (That happened this morning.) Learn the name of the person who works the self-checkout most days you are there. Address her by name; engage in a little chitchat. It’s ok to compliment your server when you think he has a nice smile or tell someone you really like their sweater (just don’t be creepy). Everyone wants to be truly seen.

All of this is in keeping with my efforts to see every one as a human being and not dismiss whole groups of people with sweeping generalizations. At some point, I’ll get into my frustration with the demonization of DEI efforts as well as some of the overcompensations that led to the backlash. Sometimes we make things too difficult. Just treat everyone with respect. Take time to get to know who they are as an individual human. Don’t just assume a mindset or intent. And more than anything else, when you can be anything, be kind. And if you can, let someone know that their kindness to you mattered.

Reconnecting

I’m still on this theme of “relationships” that has run through the last several essays. And I’m still working my way toward discussing “community” which I continue to tease. But before I can get there, I must tackle the topic of “reconnections” since it has popped up a lot for us lately.

There is something about this stage in life: you’re retired; kids, if you have them, are generally out of the house and on their own; you have time to think and reminisce about people who were important parts of your life at some point in the past yet aren’t now. Often, there is a desire to reconnect, even if only to satisfy the curiosity of “what ever happened to them?” Trish and I both have been instigators and recipients of these reconnects lately. The question of what to do with these reconnections is an interesting one.

A few years ago, I took over responsibility for gathering updates on college classmates for the semi-annual Class Notes section of our college magazine. Invariably, after I’ve sent out my email blast for input, someone will reach out to me just to say Hi. Sometimes, there has been a brief email exchange. A couple of times, there has been a phone call. These have all been pleasant interactions yet none have led to a true rekindling of a college friendship 40+ years in the past.

The reason most likely comes down to the old adage that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or life. All of us can probably recall relationships of some sort that seemed to fizzle after their “purpose” was fulfilled. Sometimes it is someone coming into your life to get you out of a bad relationship. Sometimes it’s to facilitate moving into some new stage of your life. Regardless, there is a close connection for some period of time that then just…fades away. It’s only in retrospect that you figure out the “reason”.

Other times, the relationship is one of convenience or proximity. I don’t mean that to sound like the relationship was inauthentic. Most of these college friendships fall into this category (excepting my core group that is still close). We were thrown together to navigate a fairly intense situation and developed friendships that were deep and meaningful at the time. And then after graduation, we went our separate ways and, for the most part, lived our separate lives. “Work friends” can be the same way. You spend most of your quality awake hours together for years. It’s natural to share a lot of your lives with each other. But for the most part, when proximity disappears, so does the closeness. That does not invalidate the meaning of the relationship. It just means that the “season” has passed.

When I first started to get outreach for these reconnections, I stressed about them. Of course. “Where is this going to go?” I would think. “What would it mean to rekindle this relationship and how does this person fit into my life now?” When I went to my Overthinkers Anonymous weekly meeting to discuss this dilemma, my wise group facilitator told me to just relax. “They probably just want to say Hi and find out what you’ve been up to, Sherri. It doesn’t mean they want to be your bestie.” And they were right. Around 99% of these reconnections have been pleasing one-offs and I’ve moved on. (I really do wish Overthinkers Anonymous existed. Maybe I should start a local chapter.)

There is a desire, sometimes, to get some sort of closure with a reconnection. Maybe someone was a real dick to you in the past and you want to, first, find out why and, second, get them to apologize. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT give in to this desire for closure. It just isn’t going to happen. Either the person didn’t know they were being a dick to you and will scratch their head wondering why you are bringing this up, or they DO know they were a dick to you and will be happy to know they’ve been living rent free in your head all these years. Let it go.

However, DO give in to the desire to tell someone how much you appreciated them. Both Trish and I have had experiences of people telling us that something we did ages ago really meant a lot to them. We never knew we had had that impact. That knowledge is both gratifying as well as reminder to be nice: you never know when something little you say or do is going to have an outsized impact on someone else. (This is another topic for another time.)

Very occasionally, a reconnection will lead to a true rekindling of a relationship. Beware, because those anecdotes are the exceptions that prove the rule. In general, people are in your past for a reason (particularly past romantic partners). Most of them should stay there, even if you do have a brief reconnection to satisfy curiosity. But leave yourself open to more. There is nothing wrong with being one of those exceptions. Just don’t force it. If all you end up doing is talking about the past, enjoy the moment and let the person go. Any rekindling of a friendship or relationship should be built on the foundation of your past time together, but needs to grow based on your lives today. You have both grown and changed. If that change has been in the same direction, then maybe you have something to build upon. Otherwise, reminisce with fondness and move on.

One final thought. I am super bad about initiating a reconnection. If I reach out to you, know that I am doing so in spite of my fear of rejection. And that means you really mean/meant something to me. It doesn’t mean I am looking to reform any past closeness. It just means I care and have thought about you recently.

So, enjoy these later-in-life reconnections. They can bring a lot of happiness into your life. Just don’t overthink it. You can discuss it at your next OA meeting.

Refrigerator Rights

My last essay on long time friends sparked a lot of discussion, mostly in our home. Trish and I had some long discussions on friendships. I found it very illuminating because she has approached friendships very differently from me over the years and I find myself benefiting immensely from her perspective. Ruminating on these ideas, I kept finding myself coming back to a certain type of relationship. Since the thoughts won’t leave me, I must write them down to make room for more random thoughts. So, you now get to hear me pontificate on Refrigerator Rights.

A person is granted Refrigerator Rights only within certain relationships. RR, as we will now call them since I don’t feel like typing “Refrigerator Rights” over and over, exist when you are comfortable enough with someone that you can just go help yourself to whatever you want from the frig. You don’t need to ask. You don’t need to wait to be offered. You are not just ALLOWED to get whatever you want, you are EXPECTED to go get whatever you want. “I’m not serving you. Get it yourself.”

My earliest memories of RR are related to my neighborhood friends. When I was a kid growing up in the 1960’s and ‘70s, I would just leave the house and “go play”. Sometimes it was with the kid next door. Sometimes the kid across the street. Sometimes a few kids up the hill. We just went out and came back when we felt like it or were expected to be home. As far as I remember, there was no planning by our parents. In fact, I don’t really remember planning between us kids. There was just a knock on the door and off we went. I had RR at each of these houses. The moms were too busy to serve us and we were expected to just help ourselves. Being the consummate rule follower, I only helped myself to what I knew I was allowed to have. I’m sure there was ample opportunity to get in trouble and plenty of kids did. That was just not me (at least until I went away to college). I took RR for granted back then. It just was what you did.

As an adult, RR took on new meaning. I certainly always had RR with my immediate family and I have it now with my in-laws. But I learned that being granted RR by friends was a significant milestone in the evolution of our friendship. In fact, the whole concept of RR had to explained to me by a friend one day when she got tired of the charades I would play around wanting something to drink. Too nervous to ask, I would mime thirst or some such desire. Trish calls this “passive aggressive behavior.” I call it “deep seated insecurity.” Trish will just wrinkle her nose and say, “I don’t care about the source of the behavior, just the behavior itself.” Have I noted how good this relationship has been for me?

Anyway, reaching the point of RR in a friendship is an expression of trust. It’s evidence that you have moved into one of the inner concentric circles of the relationship model. It means there is an understood level of comfort between you and the owner of said refrigerator. Some people are very relaxed and grant RR right away. I envy admire those people. They are people who are easy to get to know because they have no fear. They can be an open book because they don’t fear rejection. “You don’t like me because of this one thing? Fine. Just go help yourself to a drink.” They do not fear getting taken advantage of because they are good at setting boundaries. “Go get a snack out of that cupboard, but don’t eat the last cookie or I will throw you out.” (OK, so that one was Trish the first time I ever came to her house.) They are very comfortable in their skin and don’t concern themselves with other people’s tendency to judge. They might feel badly that there is not something you like in the fridge because they want to be a good host, but they don’t see it as an existential failing on their part.

You can probably see where I’m going with this. Making new friends has always been a bit difficult for me. That’s probably going to be my next essay since it should flow nicely from this one. Not to spoil the plot (especially since my long time readers already know this about me), but I’m always afraid of “not knowing what I don’t know” about people’s opinions of me. I try to not assume too much, even when people show me extraordinary kindness. It makes me come off as a bit aloof, I know, but I’m really just protecting myself. To counter that, I’m trying hard to develop a willingness to grant RR, both literally and in the abstract, more readily. It will still take me a while to let go of the paranoia but, as they say, you gotta fake it until you make it.

If you grant me Refrigerator Rights, know that I don’t take that lightly. I will assume you granting me RR means that you feel comfortable with me, trust me, and want me to feel the same about you. (But if you have Diet Dr. Pepper or Diet Cream Soda in there that you don’t want touched you had better tell me!) I will see it as a vote of confidence in our friendship and a willingness to get to know each other even better over time. Building lasting relationships is all about a foundation of trust, anyway. So, go help yourself to whatever you’d like! Just not the last cookie.