The AARP Generation

Last October, I told the story of the kid at the Subway sandwich shop who asked if I “did the senior discount.” To which I gave a gentle, but firm, reply: “no!”

Fast forward to yesterday, approximately ten months later. This time, at the local (Greenbrae, CA) Noah’s Bagels store, a modified version of this scenario played out…

I typically visit Noah’s here (as I did the Noah’s on Hawthorne when I lived in Portland), on Saturdays and Sundays, to have an egg mitt and a cup of tea – and read the morning newspaper. Yesterday morning there was a veteran behind the register taking orders, along with a trainee. The experienced Noah’s employee explained that I was a regular and that she typically didn’t charge me the “gourmet bagel” premium on my egg-mitt order, and that since I am such a good guy, she gives me a “family discount.”

Or at least that is what I thought she said.

Senior Discount?!

As I received my cup of hot water and took a seat to wait for my bagel, I glanced at the receipt (at left)…only to find that I had received a 10% (54-cent) “Senior Discount!”

This is the first time, I believe, that this has happened. If anyone else has ever accommodated me in this fashion, it certainly has slipped my attention.

Or maybe from my memory? (I’m not as young as I once was, you know!)

This all comes at a time when I’m about to turn over my life odometer this coming Friday, and am contemplating, every day, the fact that I’m soon about to begin my seventh decade on this planet.

Soundtrack Suggestion

When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I’d been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?
You’ll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?
Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it’s not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?

(“When I’m Sixty-Four” – Lennon/McCartney)

Ambivalence

The Soundtrack of My Life

First, there’s…

Lover please, please come back
Don’t take a train comin’ down the track
Don’t, please don’t, don’t leave me
Don’t leave me in misery

You would never hold me so near
You would never call me “Dear”
Dontcha know I’d die for you?
Now you’re gone, that’s what I’ll do

Lover please, please come back
Don’t take a train comin’ down the track
Don’t, please don’t, don’t leave me
Don’t leave me in misery

All those stories, not too long
About a love that went all wrong
The girl left the boy, just as bad
Now she’s gone, she’s so sad

Lover please, please come back
Don’t take a train comin’ down the track
Don’t, please don’t, don’t leave me
Don’t leave me in misery

(“Lover Please (Come Back)” – Clyde McPhatter)

…and then, there’s…

Well, baby used to stay out all night long
She made me cry, she done me wrong
She hurt my eyes open, that’s no lie
Tables turn and now her turn to cry

Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now
Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now

Well, she used to run around with every man in town
She spent all my money, playing her high class game
She put me out, it was a pity how I cried
Tables turn and now her turn to cry

Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now
Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now

Well, I used to wake (in) the morning, get my breakfast in bed
When I’d gotten worried she’d ease my aching head
But now she’s here and there, with every man in town
Still trying to take me for that same old clown

Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now

(“It’s All Over Now” – Rolling Stones)

Osmosis

Osmosis ( äz-mō'-sĕs ).

Function: noun.

Etymology: New Latin, short for endosmosis.

1: movement of a solvent (as water) through a semipermeable membrane (as of a living cell) into a solution of higher solute concentration that tends to equalize the concentrations of solute on the two sides of the membrane.

2: a process of absorption or diffusion suggestive of the flow of osmotic action; especially : a usually effortless often unconscious assimilation <learned a number of languages by osmosis — Roger Kimball>.

I started out my academic life as a chemist, so the term “osmosis” (defined above) is not entirely unfamiliar to me. I can just bet you’re wondering, though, what it is I’m going to say in a blog entry on this topic!

Well, as you likely surmised, I’m not going to be talking about that kind of osmosis, but rather “Osmosis” as it applies to steps along my path toward personal health and well-being…

This story starts with my search, last winter, for alternative health care in Roseburg, Oregon, as my fibromyalgia symptoms were becoming more and more problematic (and as western medicine continued to come up short in its ability to help me). The miracle-worker medicine woman I found there locally was trained in a variety of traditions, including massage therapy, Traditional Chinese Medicine, and craniosacral therapy. And, as it turned out, her massage therapy education also included time within the Lauren Berry Method of bodywork. Her unique skill set led to a miracle turnaround for me, bringing me “back from the brink” (as we came to characterize it).

When I moved from Roseburg to Larkspur, I needed to find someone else (or, more likely, other people) in the Bay Area to tend to my alternative health-care needs. I immediately sought out such providers after arriving here, and through a series of cross-referrals I was led to a bodywork person in Novato, CA, who is also trained in the Lauren Berry Method; so far I’ve had two sessions with her. During my first visit, she recommended that I seek out a unique enzyme-bath treatment available up in Sonoma County, at the Osmosis Spa.

Now, I had never heard of an enzyme bath, so I was curious to learn more. I found out (from their brochure and web site) that this enzymatic process stems from a centuries-old Japanese tradition of harvesting fruits, vegetables, herbs, mushrooms, seaweed and other life forms when they are at their peak and preserving them with saccharides. Then, during the (what is a dry-) bath experience itself, large wooden bath tubs are filled with finely ground cedar, rice bran, and these plant enzymes. This mixture heats up naturally, by fermentation, creating a biologically-generated warmth. The “bath” is an experience of being entirely (your whole body) covered up with this (slightly moist) mixture, up to the chin…much like being “buried alive” in sand at the beach.

This all sounded pretty mysterious to me, but I also read that the reported benefits of this treatment include: relief from joint and muscle aches and pains; reduced tension and fatigue; cleansing of the skin; stress reduction & calming of the nerves; improved digestion; detoxification; and improved circulation & mobility. Without a doubt, a pretty impressive list of possible outcomes! All of which I could definitely use.

I decided to give this approach a try, and after exploring the Osmosis website thoroughly, I made a reservation online for last Friday (the last day the college was closed on Fridays for the summer).

So, mid-morning I drove the hour or so up to Freestone, California, my trusty GPS guiding me all the way. I arrived a little early (of course!), and was greeted courteously at the front desk with a cup of tea and the information that I had about 12 minutes to wait before I started the process. A little bit later an attractive, smiling young woman called my name and led me through the sliding doors, while commenting favorably on the John Lennon t-shirt I had worn for the occasion.

I was shown to the men’s dressing room, relayed instructions about finding a robe, and told where to meet my personal bath attendant when I was ready. After changing and being seated in (what they call) the Japanese tea garden for a few minutes, “V” (my personal attendant, a very pleasant, articulate and well-informed young woman) arrived and we exchanged first names. First, she served me a tea mixed with enzymes made from more than 25 different organically grown plants. As she explained, the tea is a digestive aid, and works in conjunction the metabolic processes that occur during the bath. V then outlined the entire bathing process for me so that I would know what to expect. I had informed her that this was my first visit and that I was totally clueless!

Now, the literature about the bath process indicates that the bath may be done with, or without, a bathing suit (that is, nude. Yikes!). I had changed into a swim suit and was so attired underneath my robe. Of course, my in-bred Midwest Modesty was obviously in play here, and believed I might be a little hesitant to do the bath Full Monty in the presence of a young, female, total stranger. When she asked if I had any questions, I brought up this topic, wondering if I should do this with or without the suit. She very tactfully handled the topic, and explained that the more surface area of skin exposed to the enzymes, likely the greater the benefit. She then entirely left the decision to me, depending on my comfort level.

Well, I decided that it was rather ridiculous to let my old-guy conservative-Midwest reservations get in the way, especially after paying all this much money for a new adventure; after I was led into the (private) bath room, I shed both my robe and bathing suit and entered the scooped-out place in the center of the tub totally stitchless. (And totally California, don’t you think?!)

After getting situated and comfortable in the bed of organic materials, V covered me up with huge handfuls of the mixture from the sides of the tub. As it turned out, the nudity thing turned out to be a total non-issue. I was mildly warm right at the beginning, but quickly became more heated as the minutes ticked by. V left the room for a bit, then re-entered with cold towels for my face and neck, as well as water to sip (through a straw). The twenty minutes went by incredibly quickly, and I suspect I entered some type of mildly-altered state for a portion of the time. At any rate, V took excellent care of me, leaving and then re-entering a couple of times, and before I knew it, the time was up and I was out of the tub, outside the room (outdoors), having my back brushed off (of the moist sawdust-like mixture) by V. I brushed off my front and then entered my private shower where a towel and my robe were waiting for me on the other side.

I perspired a lot during my time in the tub, but the warmth felt totally wonderful. If it would have been allowable, I could have stayed in that environment much longer (I thought). But, with heat treatments, 20 minutes is the suggested max, and I held to it. As it turns out, even that may have been overdoing it for me, since that night I discovered that I had a significant rash on my backside. The rash is precisely where I have most of my chronic lower-back pain, so that seemed rather coincidental. However, it is probably less so when you take into account the fact that that is the area where I apply various lotions and creams to help ease the spasms in that region. Although I did not apply anything to my body that day, likely there was some kind of enzymatic (or merely heat) reaction with some residual lotion on my skin.

After the bath, I continued on with another option they offer in conjunction with the bath; I had a massage. V left me at the bottom of the stairs, and I ascended to the second floor waiting area until “J” came to fetch me. Now, I’ve had many massages before in my life, so finally I was back on familiar ground. J was very talented – she had very good hands.

After the massage, I changed back into my street clothes and checked out at the front desk. (After waiting for two women who were, for some reason, giving the attendant a difficult time about their scheduled massage appointment…they were very abrupt and rude – quite in contrast to the serene nature of the place.) I was treated very nicely at checkout, though, and offered a cup of tea, with the suggestion I visit the meditation garden (which I did for about 15 minutes or so).

It was a little difficult to face the prospect of driving the hour back home and facing the “real world” again, but here I am. I made it. I’m back at it.

I’m not sure yet what this experience has actually done for me: how much benefit it has actually provided. What I do know is that I have not worn my back brace for the last two days (mostly to avoid the possibility of aggravating the rash), with my lower back feeling quite a bit better than it has in recent times. I would very much like this to continue!

After I recover from the rash, I’m pretty sure I’ll be thinking about how soon I can do the whole thing all over again.

If you’re ever in my neighborhood, for now I’m suggesting you just might want to take in this little bit of California while you’re here.

I Just Don’t Think

It seems I’ve gotten myself into a bit of an emotional predicament again. And even though the situation is entirely of my own making, I’m trying not to be too down on myself. I’m trying to breathe in and out, in and out. I’m seeking to live in the present moment. And to make it through this. One breath at a time.

So, I guess I’m going to tell you this tale (or at least the surface part — the portion I can admit to in public). The deal is: when it comes to the story of my life, I really can’t not write about this. Because as much as the theme of change has dominated my existence recently (what with a new job, living in a new state, and such things as the California driver’s-license test), this latest development overshadows everything else I’ve discussed so far. This is about one more major event in my life, happening synchronously with everything else.

Here goes…

Ten years ago, in the fall of 1997, I met someone. I thought (actually very early on I felt certain) that she was “the one.” It had been about a decade since I’d felt anything quite like this, and, oh was I really feeling excited about life and the prospects to come.

However, C (she is the one who originally dubbed me with the “TechnoMonk” moniker) and I spent a good portion of the next two years in one of the most horrendously-tumultuous relationships imaginable, as her ambivalence about “us” absolutely dominated our couple dynamics. We were together; then we were not. Over and over this happened. Together, separated; together, separated. Ultimately, in the fall of 1999, after too many partings and subsequent reconciliations to count, and as she was in recovery from breast-cancer surgery, we wisely ceased trying to be a couple. It was a relief for me, because the emotional roller-coaster ride that was this relationship had totally drained me. By that point, I was emotionally, physically, and spiritually spent. I was at a true low point in my life.

A lot of people had observed me over this two-year span and knew what a toll it had taken on my psyche. So, one thing I have kept hidden from many is that I have allowed, over the subsequent eight years, this dynamic to continue to play out, although, arguably, with slightly less drama.

For, you see, C and I remained “friends” — which was her idea, her agenda. (Really, I viewed myself totally committed to a “whole” relationship from the start.) This was probably foolishness, but I allowed it to happen. For one thing, I could never, really, imagine my life without her in it. So, I was a participant in (for what was for me) a half-relationship. However, this kind of arrangement  was not without its pitfalls, since I was the one (this time) always ambivalent about trying to be “just friends” with a former lover. It had happened only once in my life prior to this, and, as I think most folks will attest, it just doesn’t tend to work out that well.

As it turned out, even as friends, we had our comings and goings. We had some periods when we were in close contact (sometimes daily, primarily by phone and email) and other times when we (mostly I) decided that this “friendship” scenario was just not working.

There were several points during these friendship years when I brought up the topic of getting together again: that I had never given up on that idea, and was waiting for her “to come to her senses.” Typically, it was shortly after I brought this topic up that we took a break from our friendship for weeks or even months. The separations were always painful for me, but because I missed her (and “the kids”), and the pain always seemed to subside, I would ultimately agree to give the friendship thing yet one more try.

Up until last weekend, the friendship had been on (as I calculate and recollect) its longest continuous run…over a year and a half of frequent contact and friendship-kind-of-closeness (although I had lived in Portland, Roseburg and Larkspur and she in Eugene). It was C who called together the family for a farewell dinner for me. It was at C’s house that I spent my last two nights in Oregon. It was C who made me tuna fish sandwiches for my first afternoon of driving to California. It was C who saw me break down into tears as I took leave of the part of the country I had called home for 37 years. It was to C that I made my first phone call after arriving in my new living space here in the Bay Area. And it was C who sent me a gift certificate so that I might furnish the outside patio of my new living quarters with a reclining lounge chair.

Then, out of the blue, an email arrived last weekend that she was going to go camping with her granddaughter, her granddaughter’s friend, and that friend’s Dad.

When I wrote seeking clarification of what that meant, and after waiting three days for a reply, I finally got the word that there was someone else.

Frankly, I was stunned; there had been nothing to prepare me for this. All of a sudden, with absolutely no warning (especially given my final days in Oregon with her, just within the last month), she is moving on.

C: I wish you well and all health and happiness. And a relationship free of ambivalence.

In the meantime, I’m dealing with changing my entire life around — including, now, the added dimension of needing to heal a hole in my heart.

I am needing to find a way, at this point, to fill this very large void in my entire existence. I just lost my best friend. Yet one more time.

Soundtrack Suggestion

I drink good coffee every morning
Comes from a place that’s far away
And when I’m done I feel like talking
Without you here there is less to say
I don’t want you thinking I’m unhappy
What is closer to the truth
That if I lived till I was 102
I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you
I’m no longer moved to drink strong whisky
’Cause I shook the hand of time and I knew
That if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs
I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you
Your face it dances and it haunts me
Your laughter’s still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years
But I don’t want you thinking I don’t get asked to dinner
’Cause I’m here to say that I sometimes do
Even though I may soon feel the touch of love
I just don't think I’ll ever get over you
If I lived till I was 102
I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you

(“ I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You” — Colin Hay)

Stranger In A Strange Land

I was an Oregonian for 32 years, and I know that residents of that state have a longstanding reputation for being independent: for subscribing to the philosophy of rugged individualism, or doing things “ the Oregon Way,” if you will. The Oregon State Motto of “She Flies With Her Own Wings,” seems to reflect the state’s citizens willingness to boldly go where no man has gone before. In 1999 the state adopted as its advertising slogan (and unofficial state motto), the phrase, “Oregon. Things Look Different Here.” Although that saying was replaced, in 2003, by a new unofficial slogan “Oregon. We Love Dreamers,” it’s the “things look different here” mantra that is running through my mind a lot these days.

For now, I’ve moved away from my adoptive state of Oregon, am currently a Californian, and, well, things are different here.

For example, take the matter of registering a vehicle with the state in order to be issued California license plates.

As you know, I purchased a new Subaru before leaving Oregon. I was living and working in Oregon at the time: ergo, I was a resident there when I purchased the vehicle. Of course, that means I paid no sales tax on the purchase because Oregon does not have such a tax. But, what happens when an individual takes a new sales-tax-free vehicle to California, is that he or she is assessed a “use tax” when registering the vehicle. This fee is in the amount of the applicable California sales tax. (Any sales tax already paid in another state may be credited against the California use tax. Most states have a sales tax. The way I look at it, this seems strictly a way to “get” Oregonians when they move here.) Yesterday I went to the DMV to register my car, and the check I wrote out to get my first set of plates came to $2,334! …and the funny thing is (ha ha), I didn’t even get the actual plates. My official Oregon registration document has not come in the mail yet, so I was unable to surrender it. The best California could do was to give me a temporary registration sticker for my window. So, this is what I got for my money:

California , you really know how to welcome a guy.

Not!

The driver’s license part of the DMV visit was quite an experience as well. Here, a stone’s throw from the Silicon Valley, the high-tech Mecca of the world, they still give paper and pencil tests! I was handed a sheet of paper, 18 questions on each side, and was directed to a testing area where I could mark in little boxes for the multiple-choice exam. Then, after I handed it in, the counter attendant graded it by hand. (Yes, I passed. One wrong. 35/36 = 97%. Obviously, knowing me, you can bet that I was shooting for a perfect score. Sigh…) It was 17 years ago this month, July 1990, when I moved to Indiana and sought to be a licensed driver there. Even back then, at the DMV office in backwater Bloomington, Indiana, I was directed to a kiosk to take a test in a completely automated process.

And, finally, in a stunning conclusion to my visit, even though I had shown my birth certificate, been fingerprinted, had my picture taken, and passed the test, I was given just one little slip of paper to carry around that is now my temporary permit. I asked, “I don’t get my license right now?” To which the reply was, “No. You’re in California. Things are different here. (He actually said that!) You get your license in the mail in about 2 weeks. Maybe 4 or 5. Have a good day.”

Oh, California. Thanks so much for your hospitality. I’m sure feeling good about this.

Finally, as I’m on this stream of how much I’m loving my new state, I’ll let the photo tell the story. Here’s my new office space…

Bottom line? My jaw is perpetually dropping as I continue to find out the way things are done here. Someday, the newness of this will all wear off, I’m sure. I’ll be “settled.” I will have been completely socialized to this part of the country: not only the state of California, but Marin County, California. Until then, I’m going to be walking around feeling, invariably, like a Martian.