Horizontal Compatibility
Online dating, at my age, raises questions one does not always anticipate. Some of them, it turns out, are… positional.
A woman on OurTime (a dating site for seniors) recently “liked” my profile. I liked her back and sent a message suggesting that we meet. Then… nothing. Four weeks passed. I ultimately filed the whole thing away under “oh, well.” I admit, I forgot all about her.
But eventually she wrote.
So then I found myself, somewhat to my own surprise, heading out for my first first date since March 2019. This fact alone felt like an event worth noting.
The meeting itself, at a local Starbucks, went well. More than well, actually. We talked for more than an hour and a half without effort. The conversation had range, some depth, even a bit of spark. At the end, there was a hug that she initiated. Not the standard-issue, socially-prescribed hug, but a long, sustained, quietly-mutual embrace. The kind of physical contact that lingers just enough to suggest possibility.
I drove home thinking, well, that was nice.
The next day, I wrote to say I’d enjoyed meeting her and would be glad to get together again.
Her reply was, and I quote:
“id like to meet again if we spend most of that time hugging. Hmm where would that be possible”
Now, as suggestions go, this was not one I was inclined to reject. I even confessed, in a moment of candor, that I might qualify as a very touch-deprived individual. And so it seemed that we had entered into a mildly flirtatious exchange, one with a surprisingly clear agenda.
But then came the practical question: where does one go to engage in sustained, low-ambiguity hugging?
She thought maybe a park. A blanket. Perhaps a picnic.
And now it is here is where the narrative takes a decisive turn toward the absurd.
I explained, as plainly as I could, that lying on the ground — grass, sand, or any other surface that requires one to interface directly with the planet — is not something my back, hip, and leg nerves are inclined to negotiate well. This was not about getting up afterward. This was about being down there in the first place. So, yep, I had reservations about this idea.
And let’s be clear: we are talking about two 78-year-olds here. The image of both of us gracefully arranging ourselves on a blanket, then remaining there in some extended state of horizontal embrace, begins to feel less like romance and more like a logistical exercise requiring advance planning and possibly a small crane.
Her response was brief and decisive. Again, I quote:
“Regretfully, if you’re not capable of laying down on a blanket with me, I guess we’re not a match”
And just like that, a door closed.
There is something almost admirable in the specificity, the cleanness, of the rejection. Not conversation. Not compatibility. Not chemistry. Rather: blanket viability.
One imagines her revising her profile to include: “Must enjoy meaningful conversation and prolonged horizontal hugging in outdoor settings.”
Rejection, however it arrives, still has a way of landing, though. And land it did. Not dramatically, but just enough to be noticed, a small shift in the internal weather. And then, as these things tend to do, the storm passed, leaving behind the memory of that unexpectedly good hug.
Thank you, universe, for that.
Shrinking
“Shrinking.” noun: a popular series on Apple TV.
“Shrinking.” adjective: becoming smaller in size or amount.
Lately, the word brings the TV show to mind first. Harrison Ford, Jason Segel, and Jessica Williams play therapists sharing a small private practice. I’m quite fond of it. It manages to be funny while taking on friendship, parenting, grief, and the frequent ethical angle. I really look forward to each episode.
But there is also a more personal meaning these days: becoming smaller in size. It turns out that is not just a definition; it is my life.
The older I get, the smaller my world becomes.
Last fall I traveled to my high school reunion, only the second trip I’ve taken since the pandemic. Both trips have been to small-town northern Wisconsin. Travel has become such a physical ordeal that I now approach it with the strategic planning of a minor military operation. Fortunately, I had enough frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class each time. I am not sure I would have survived the cattle-car-in-the-back alternative. Or at least with not much dignity; my claustrophobic tendencies would likely have taken up too much attention.
Closer to home, my world has settled into a familiar circuit. The UPS store for my Amazon packages. Three grocery stores in regular rotation. And then the medical offices. So many medical offices! I seem to have assembled quite an impressive team of specialists, each responsible for a different body part that is no longer performing as originally advertised. Most of these businesses and offices are in North Eugene where I live. My ophthalmologist, pain doc, and therapist are in South Eugene.
Yes, I have a therapist. At this age. I still have issues.
There is also my daily walk, which remains essential for body, mind and spirit. Not that long ago I was walking three miles a day, more than a thousand miles a year. These days I manage about one mile, often pausing halfway to stretch and negotiate with my back. Spinal stenosis and its accompanying nerve pain have reset expectations. They have also reduced how often I attend protests or head out with a camera, both once reliable parts of my routine.
And then there is my height. I used to measure 5 foot 7 at my annual physical. Last month, even standing as tall as I could, I came in just under 5 foot 5. Apparently, I am not only aging, I am compressing. Yes, I have osteoporosis. I do not like this. In high school I was among the shortest in my class, often the last chosen for teams. I remember the feelings of inadequacy that resulted. While I am no longer being chosen for teams, the world is still a different place for a short man. It always has been.
What I am left with, it seems, is a smaller map. Fewer miles traveled, fewer places to go, fewer things I can easily do. Even a shorter reach upward.
Despite everything, though, I seem to be getting a better look at what’s right in front of me.
And if necessary, I suppose, I can always stand on tiptoe.
Soundtrack Suggestion
Well, I don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
‘Round here
Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
To love
(“Short People” — Randy Newman)
The Executor Dilemma
A Boy Scout’s Guide to Late-life Logistics
In my previous essay, I found myself reflecting on the subject of time. Writing it left me thinking much more seriously about how much of it I may have left. At my age — I’m now in my 79th year — existential angst is to be expected. Many friends and colleagues are now gone, while those of us still here seem increasingly occupied with managing one physical malady or another.
Ah yes, the maladies. They arrive in clusters at this stage of life, don’t they? For example, my walking regimen, once integral to both my physical and mental health, has become disturbingly limited. Chronic nerve pain from spinal stenosis now restricts my mobility, and more recently I have added compression stockings to my wardrobe to deal with peripheral edema. It really is no secret that a senior-citizen’s body is a full-time maintenance project.
Now, as it happens, I was a Boy Scout in my youth, and the motto drilled into every Scout was simple: Be Prepared.
Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouting, did not mean that only in the sense of carrying the right gear on a camping trip. He meant it as a way of approaching life itself. Think ahead. Get things in order before the moment arrives.
So. Let’s get real. It definitely is time for me to get serious about preparing for my Final Exit.
The pandemic, of course, had previously served to sharpen this realization. In 2020 I was well into the category of people considered highly vulnerable to COVID. Although we did not know the precise statistics at the time, we now know that people over 65 accounted for the vast majority of deaths from the disease. I behaved cautiously and, for whatever reason, never contracted the virus.
However, during that unsettling time, I did make a few modest strides toward “getting my affairs in order.” Ever since then, a white 9×12 envelope labeled “Important Stuff” has been attached to my refrigerator door, quietly waiting to be needed. Inside it are my Advance Directive, which I prepared back in 2014 (upon retirement), along with some basic information about my finances and where funds should be directed upon my death.
Of course, one rather obvious detail remained unresolved. Who exactly would carry out these wishes? I never actually completed a Will.
Not that I didn’t try. I went to the FreeWill website and started working through the prompts. Everything went smoothly until I reached the section asking me to name an Executor. Who would that be? I do not have a spouse or significant other, and most of my relatives live far away. Asking friends to take on the administrative burden of settling someone’s affairs felt like a rather large favor to request.
So the process stalled.
But I have just recently discovered that there are professionals who can perform this role. Licensed Professional Fiduciaries can serve as a Personal Representative, handling the various financial, legal, and logistical details that follow a person’s death. In cases like mine, where the estate is modest, the process may even be handled through a Simple Estate Affidavit rather than a lengthy probate proceeding.
I am still learning about how all of this works, of course, but I have already contacted a local firm that provides fiduciary services and requested an initial consultation.
None of this is especially dramatic; it is simply the quiet work of tidying up important details. It’s the kind of effort that is easy to postpone because the moment requiring it always seems far away. Yet eventually the time arrives. Deep down, we all know that.
And so I find myself returning to bits of advice first learned long ago in the Boy Scout Handbook. The lessons were about life. And now death.
Be prepared.
Soundtrack Suggestion
I’m not scared of dying
And I don't really care
If it’s peace you find in dying
Well, then let the time be near
If it’s peace you find in dying
And if dying time is near
Just bundle up my coffin cause
It’s cold way down there
I hear that's it’s cold way down there
Yeah, crazy cold way down there
(“And When I Die” — Laura Nyro; Blood, Sweat & Tears)
The Monk Persists
I built this blog on Thanksgiving Day, 2005. From scratch. In a single afternoon.
That first version is likely something archaeologists of the early internet might excavate from a dead server farm somewhere. Remember, this was before Facebook. Before Twitter. Before podcasts. Before we were all gently coerced into becoming “content creators,” feeding platforms whose names would eventually become verbs.
Back then blogging was its own ecosystem. Independent. Slightly nerdy. Sometimes thoughtful. Often opinionated. For some weird reason, I wanted in.
On that first day I explained how I came to call myself “TechnoMonk.” The name originated with a friend who once observed that my home furnishings were distinctly Spartan, while my investment in cameras, computers, and sound equipment was anything but. The term stuck; I’m still a gadget enthusiast.
The original blog was hosted by Blogger, and lived on a Comcast server under the domain technomonk.us. It was free, which seemed appropriate for what was then essentially a self-indulgent side project. Over time I discovered that “free” came with aesthetic constraints, sketchy support, and documentation that was likely composed by a tech guy with limited social skills. After almost a year of muttering at the screen, I decided to move on.
In October 2006 I adopted the domain technomonksmusings.com and migrated everything to Squarespace, where it has remained ever since. That first transition was not seamless. Files were exported and imported; some did not survive the journey. Lessons were learned. Patience was tested. A few agonizing weeks passed.
Eventually the site settled into Squarespace’s v5 platform, where it has lived for many years. The design remained largely unchanged. I described this to myself as “clean and timeless.” It may also have been “aging quietly.” At this point, my blog is older than many current, well, what-do-you-call-them, “influencers.”
What changed over time was my understanding of what this space represented. What began as a modest vanity project gradually became something more substantial: a personal archive. It now contains reflections on work, institutional politics, relationships, travel, aging, grief, loss, rejection, existential angst, and yes, a fairly steady stream of complaints. I have never curated commentary particularly carefully.
Version 5, however, has reached its twilight. Support is minimal. Editing began to feel like maintaining a museum exhibit devoted to mid-2000s web design. So the options became clear: let it fade away, archive it imperfectly, or migrate again.
But I remembered 2006. The mere thought of another migration made my shoulders tighten. The move to Squarespace 7.1 would preserve the content, but the site itself would need rebuilding. Every post would require reformatting. One. By. One. Add in the predictable dry eyes from too many hours at a screen, and it all began to feel like a full-contact sport.
And yet, here we are.
The transition is complete. The layout is cleaner. The font is slightly larger, which my fellow senior citizens should appreciate. Underneath, the structure is sturdier and far less temperamental.
Two domain names. Three platforms. Twenty years.
Not bad for something launched on a whim in a sparsely furnished home office with just my computer and one crazy idea.
So: thank you for stopping by, whether you’ve been here since 2005 or arrived somewhere along the way. I can’t promise frequency. I can promise that when something feels worth saying, it will appear here.
The Monk persists.
Soundtrack Suggestion
It’s quite apparent
Your grammar’s errant
You’re incoherent
Saw your blog post
It’s really fantastic
That was sarcastic
’Cause you write like a spastic
I hate these Word Crimes
Your prose is dopey
Think you should only
Write in emoji
(“Word Crimes” – “Weird Al” Yankovic)
Sardines in the Back Bar: My High School Reunion
I graduated from high school in 1965, right in the middle of that turbulent, unforgettable decade. Last month, I made the cross-country trek from Eugene, Oregon, to Rice Lake, Wisconsin, for my 60-year reunion.
Traveling to rural northern Wisconsin isn’t easy. These days, I take two days just to get there. This time I flew to Minneapolis via Seattle, rented a car, and drove to a nearby hotel in the dark. Car rentals, of course, come with their own set of challenges. I drive a 2020 Subaru Crosstrek at home, so when I found myself behind the wheel of a 2025 Nissan Rogue, I had to pause in the airport lot, dig out the 600-page manual, and acquaint myself with the vehicle’s basics. Eventually, I made it to the airport Holiday Inn Express, tired but in one piece.
Day two was the drive to Rice Lake. I stopped in Menomonie to see my friend “BA,” a classmate I’ve known since I was 12. We’ve been in steady contact — often over Zoom during and since the pandemic — so our conversation flowed easily, even if it wasn’t about anything in particular. Politics and religion are off-limits between us, so our chatter resembled a Seinfeld-style “conversation about nothing.” Still, it was grounding to reconnect before the busy weekend ahead.
On day three, I had breakfast with another classmate, “CJ.” We first reconnected at our 40th reunion and in recent times have grown a bit closer through regular Zoom calls. Our conversations are different from most — personal, probing, unafraid of difficult topics like family dynamics, belonging, and the choices that shaped our lives. Sitting across from her in person gave those exchanges a richness I rarely find elsewhere.
That evening was the first group gathering at a local pizza place. I had gone in with low expectations, and still, the chaotic setup surprised me: thirty or so people crammed into the back corner of a bar with no clear plan for how to mingle or sit together. Consequently, BA and I retreated to a booth for dinner before cautiously rejoining the group once the crowd thinned. To my relief, I found a few familiar faces and even received a warm hug from a female classmate who had been reading my writings over the years. Those small moments of recognition helped balance out the initial frustration.
The next morning, BA and I met again for breakfast, this time joined by “WJ.” Our conversation took a surprising turn when, at one point, he asked, “Do you believe in vaccines?” The question startled me, but to my relief, all three of us agreed. Still, it was a reminder of the cultural divide I often feel when I return to Rice Lake — a blue-leaning visitor navigating a visit to a deeply red part of the country.
Saturday night was the main event at Lehman’s Supper Club, the classic Rice Lake venue for special occasions. Drinks started at five, but I stuck with ginger ale while classmates sipped their cocktails. I chatted briefly with a few people, but the connections felt fleeting. Dinner was buffet-style, serviceable but unremarkable, and I found myself at a table where conversation was scarce. By 7:30, much of the room had emptied out.
