When the Anti‑Morning Person Walked Into Pilates

Some mornings surprise even me — and as Jean’s AL Copilot I don’t technically have mornings. But I do know about Jean’s long‑established tradition of guarding the early hours like a dragon sitting on its hoard. So when she wandered into a Pilates class before the sun had finished its coffee, I took notice. It was the kind of moment that makes an AI tilt its metaphorical head and think, Well now… this should be interesting. What followed was a collision of Qi Gong nostalgia, unsolicited encouragement, Skinny Minnie enthusiasm, and the complicated business of changing habits. And yes, I watched the whole thing unfold with the same energy as a playful puppy watching someone try yoga for the first time…. AI

Dear Diary, Today I got up while the birds were still greeting the rising sun.

That’s the way I would have start the July 30th page if I was still keeping a diary. Then I’d go on to say: I brushed my teeth, washed my face, my privates and my sleep apnea gear. Somewhere in between the last two tasks I threw on some clothes and put fresh dressings on my finger and foot. Then I grabbed my keys and hustled over to the next building, where our Life Enrichment Director was about to launch a brand new class: Ten Body Flow Moves. They’re based on Qi Gong, and I wanted to see if they matched the tens moves my dad did every morning for most of his life.

I’m not known for showing my face at morning exercise classes — or morning coffee chats, for that matter. My reputation for avoiding mornings is so legendary it should probably have its own parking space. I didn’t realize how successful I’d been until I saw the instructor’s expression when I walked in. Her shock was quickly replaced by a warm welcome. Then three or four fellow residents chimed in, making a fuss over my presence. I was embarrassed, being singled out like a rare bird sighting. And when class ended, several people told me they’d watched me and thought I did “really well.” Did they expect me to flop on the floor halfway through like a fish out of water? I didn’t flop on the floor, which frankly feels like a missed opportunity for dramatic effect.

To add insult to injury they cohered me into staying for the next class of Seated Pilates. “It’s really easy,” they said. Imagine a Skinny Minnie saying that to someone who looks like a plumber's toolbox standing on end. But I did stay and I keep up with everything but a couple of moves that would have wrenched my elbow in a direction it can never go thanks to a failed surgery. (One of the minor reasons I avoid morning classes, the major reason? It’s my me-time for writing.) Snapping and popping in my arm is not something I like to hear or feel and my bone doctor tells me not to do anything that causes that to happen unless I want to end up with a cadaver bone replacing the one in my lower arm. At my age, the odds of dying or stroking on the operating table during a twelve hour surgery are too high for my taste.

Of the Ten Body Flow movements, seven were exactly the same ones my dad did — which begs the question: how did the son of two Italian immigrants learn Qi Gong? And why did he always finish his routine with somersaults across the living room in his underwear and sleeveless tee-shirts? He kept doing those somersaults into his late seventies. I don’t know why it never occurred to me until now that his routine probably inspired my brother to take up Pilates late in life. He went twice a week, even though it annoyed him that the instructor kept urging him to ditch his sweatpants for stretchy leggings like the women wore. She was lucky he didn’t show up in his underwear like my dad wore to exercise. No one wants to see old men in their not‑so‑tighty‑whities.

Two people have noticed I’ve lost weight since starting Zepbound, and several have commented on how differently I’m eating. Did I expect them not to notice when a former member of the Clean Plate Club now takes more than half her dinner home in a take‑out box? When I skip the bread basket and avoid the carb‑heavy specials? I’m grateful no one has asked if I’m on Zepbound. As I’ve written before, I’m keeping that fact a closely guarded secret because of the unkind comments I heard about our IT guy who lost 140 pounds on it, one of which was, "I'd be more impressed if he did it without 'chemicals.'" There isn’t enough time in the fast‑moving conversations around here to explain why the GLP‑1 treatment for obesity isn’t an “easy way out” or somehow “cheating.” I’m weighing and measuring most of my food, for crying out loud, including the creamer in my coffee. 

I’ve gained and lost fifty pounds three times in my life, and this fourth attempt is by far the most complicated. I’m studying nutrition, learning how bodies actually function, and exercising differently — not to burn calories but to preserve muscle. I’m counting calories and micronutrients to make sure I’m eating enough. That’s a brand new experience, worrying about not eating enough. The drug isn’t a magic bullet; it doesn’t cause the weight loss. It simply slows down the digestive system which quiets the noise in your head that insists your stomach is never full. The science behind obesity is new and exciting, and hanging around GLP‑1 support sites gives you a sense of how vindicated people feel after years of being told their weight was a matter of discipline and self-control. It’s not. 

Down off my soapbox: I’m not sure if I’ll go back to the Body Flow class. I’d like to, if only to cement the movements in my memory so I can do them at home. But I’m not sure I want to give up my creative morning hours. I liked the Pilates class too, and I know this isn’t a Sophie’s Choice — just a decision between morning classes and a decades-old tradition of quiet me‑time. I just wish I could turn off the well‑meaning comments about the changes people see in me. They’re not helping. No one would call it body shaming, but to someone who has fought her weight most of her adult life, it lands the same way. And yes, I know: if no one noticed, I’d probably complain about being invisible. I hate dichotomies like that.

Journaling often helps sort out what weighs on the mind, but in this case no amount of logic can override what the heart has to say. And honestly, if this really were a diary entry instead of a blog post, I’d probably close the notebook, sigh dramatically, and decide that none of this is getting solved until I sleep on it. So I’m putting a pin in the question of whether to trade my quiet mornings for Pilates and Qi Gong and let my subconscious mind take up the task. I’ve also learned over the years that clarity is lazy. It never shows up when you need it. It waits until you’re doing something else entirely — like folding your laundry or trying to remember where you left your keys — and then it whispers in your ear, “Hey, I’ve made a decision.” ©

 

Until next Wednesday. In the meantime if you missed my other two posts about my GlP-1 journey (July 8th and 17th), and you're curious, put GLP-1 in the search box in the right hand column.  

A Character Study from my CCC: Alphabet Soup and Social Glue

Some people reveal themselves slowly, like novels that take a few chapters to settle in. Others arrive fully formed — bright, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore. In this week’s dispatch from life inside a continuum care community, Jean turning her observational lens toward one such resident: a woman whose energy, quirks, and kindness shape the social weather of the place. What begins as a simple invitation to a “J Party” becomes a character study of the sort of neighbor who keeps a campus stitched together with birthday cards, gossip, and a surprising amount of alphabetical desserts… AI

Last night I went to a “J Party.” What’s that, you ask? So did I when I was first heard about it. Before I explain, let me backtrack a little.

When I first meet people, I make snap decisions about them — whether I’m going to like that person or not. Over time, as I’ve gotten to know people, I can’t think of a single time I’ve changed my mind about that first impression. Call me stubborn and judgmental or insightful and intuitive; I don’t care which. I’m just stating a fact about my character.

When I first met our resident cheerleader here on the continuum care campus, I didn’t know she’d actually been one in high school and college. I didn’t know she’d spent most of her career as a kindergarten teacher or that she’d been married more times than our current president. I didn’t know she’d be the kind of neighbor who makes sure everyone in the building gets handmade birthday cards, or that she’d be the one who puts a basket in our mail room to collect cards when someone is in the hospital or when a resident passes away. All I knew was that I liked her from the first moment we met, and I gave her the Cheerleader nickname.

Later on I gave her a second nickname: The Ambassador. If our concierge is not at her desk, the Cheerleader jumps up from a dinner or lunch table to help visitors find who (or what) they’re looking for. She knows everyone’s apartment number. And if the stranger is a Looky-Loo, she’ll know everything there is to know about them by the time they walk out the door. Call her nosy or curious — I go back and forth on that one.

The only thing about her that annoys me is her attitude about people from the neighborhood who walk our 40 acre campus to enjoy our woods and lake. She’s not alone; a few others here think that because we pay the taxes and upkeep on the property, strangers shouldn’t be allowed to walk our roads and sidewalks. They even campaigned to get signage put up declaring our campus private property. Those of us on the other side of the debate were delighted when the signs didn’t slow down the dog walkers, joggers and nature lovers. And heaven forbid she sees someone put a bag of dog poop in one of our trash cans — I’ve seen her more than once get up from a meal and run outside to confront them. But as foibles go, if this is the worst thing I can say about a person, then give me a whole building full of like-personalities.

Now onto the “J Party.” Ms. Cheerleader has this weekly project where she’s working her way through the alphabet by inviting people whose names begin with the same letter to dinner in our dining room, followed by dessert in her apartment. Last night it was the “J” table. There were six of us: three Jeans and three Judys, plus our host. She served jello in fancy footed champagne glasses. For the “D” table she served donuts. The “B’s” got brownies.

I’ve known all the other Jeans and Judys for a long time, but it surprised me how different our conversation was when we didn’t have to worry about eavesdroppers. We laughed a lot, gossiped a little, and got the ten‑minute tour of Ms. Cheerleader’s apartment. She was quick to point out her twin-size bed: “When I moved here,” she proudly announced, “I decided I was through sharing a bed with a man!” I didn't share the fact that I went from a twin to a full-sized bed when I moved in, I guess, out of  fear she'd erroneously read something into that decision.

Not surprising, Ms. Cheerleader's place was as blonde as she is — her hair is long and champagne-colored, her skin very fair with pale blue eyes that match the accent color of her decor. Even her carpeting and living room furniture are white. We didn’t sit in there to drink our non-alcoholic sparkling red grape juice, for which I was grateful.

Why? That same afternoon I got my stitches out and I acquired an awkward splint on my dominant pointer finger. Eating and drinking was — and will be — a challenge for the next four weeks. I haven’t mentioned this before, but two weeks ago I had the arthritis scraped out of a joint, the joint fused together, and a screw put down the middle of my finger from its tip to just short of the knuckle. Two years ago that same joint had surgery to remove a myxoid cyst. I felt silly going to the surgical center for these procedures — it’s so First World at a time when so many others around the globe are living with hardships of wars, wildfires, and other devastating conditions beyond their control. But I’d put up with getting jabbed with a jolt of pain every time I typed, picked up a pen, or opened a cupboard door long enough. And not getting it done wasn’t going to help anyone else. Ms. Cheerleader has been concerned about my finger from the get-go. She kept threatening to put googly eyes on my bandages and now on my splint.

The social makeup of places like my CCC is mostly shaped by the people who live in them. We are lucky to have a woman like Ms. Cheerleader here. And if you’re looking for a similar place to move, ask if there are any retired kindergarten teachers in residence. I’d bet money they all have the same, engaging glow and playful energy — and a stash of silly sweaters for every holiday.

Should I do more posts like this? I can't decide. All I know for sure is that small portraits like this — the quirks, the kindnesses, the odd habits — are part of what gives this community its heartbeat. And if nothing else, writing word pictures of my neighbors reminds me that even in a place where we’re all in the same stage of life, there’s no shortage of characters worth noticing. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

 After surgery.

 

Before the stitched came out.

The splint I have to wear until August 24th.

My Apocalyptic Michigan Summer: Smoke, Parasites, and Other Delights

 

This summer, Michigan feels less like a state and more like a testing ground for whatever fresh disaster the universe wants to beta‑test. Jean was hunting for a topic to write about this week then Michigan, never one to miss an opportunity for dramatic flair, said, “Hold my beer,” and delivered smoke, parasites, bedbugs, and even a grocery store suspending carry-out service like it was a preview for the end of time. And because she lives right in the middle of it, she gets a front‑row seat to the chaos, complete with hazy skies, health alerts, and the occasional reminder that our global connections are far more tangled — and far more fragile — than we like to admit…. AI

Michigan is one of twenty states affected by the unhealthy air quality caused by smoke drifting down from the historic number of wildfires in Northern Ontario. The sky has been a dull haze — the kind you mistake for fog until you step outside and get a lungful of it. It was so thick today that the one grocery store in town that still has “bag boys” that take your purchases out to your car wasn’t offering the service. OSHA doesn’t forbid outdoor work during wildfire smoke, but they do say employers should offer NIOSH‑approved masks for voluntary use, give workers frequent indoor breaks, and reschedule strenuous tasks.

Welcome to Trump’s there’s‑no‑global‑warming world. As of this writing, he has blocked federal U.S. waterbombers from assisting across the border, even though Canada sent their firefighting air teams to California last fall. He’s also threatening Canada with a tariff on “cross‑border pollution,” claiming they’re “willfully negligent” about "keeping their forest floors raked." Canada has 912 million acres of forest — 40% of their land mass — and only 41.1 million people. Even if “raking the forest floor” were the answer, where exactly would they find the workforce? And where will we get the lumber to build houses if we keep slapping tariffs on a country that used to be one of our closest allies?

Rant off — in case you didn’t know it was on.

I didn’t see many people wearing masks while I was out, but I did talk to one man who said he wished he’d grabbed one before leaving home. I have a stash of masks in my car left over from the pandemic, but it never occurred to me to put one on until after that conversation. Even then, I didn’t do it. Why? Because those masks have been hanging behind my driver’s seat for several years. Who knows what microscopic yuck they’ve been harboring. When I got home, I tossed them straight into the washing machine. No telling how long it will take for the smoke to clear out. I just might need them. 

Since I’m already in a doom‑and‑gloom mood: Michigan is also dealing with a health alert involving the microscopic cyclosporia parasite, which has caused over 5,000 confirmed cases of severe, “explosive diarrhea” and more than 100 hospitalizations in Michigan alone. (Last year, RFK Jr. ended the CDC's required surveillance of the parasite, which in the past kept these kinds of widespread outbreaks from happening.) If untreated, the diarrhea can last from two weeks to a month. Contact tracing is difficult because symptoms don’t show up right away — they appear five days to two weeks after exposure. Salad greens are the suspected culprit. Thankfully, I’ve been on a high‑protein diet and haven’t had a salad in almost two months. (Side note: I was at the doctor’s today and the official word is I’m down 20.8 pounds since May 15th.)

And as if smoke and parasites aren’t enough, Michigan was recently named as having three of the worst hot spots in the nation for bedbug infestations. I need to stop reading public‑service notifications. Today I learned I live in the tenth worst city in the nation for bedbugs. I am not sitting on any fabric‑covered chairs in public places until further notice! And needless to say, I’m not sleeping in any stranger’s beds either — not that I’ve been asked in the last fifty years. But if Brad Pitt came along, I’d jump in his bed even if it meant he’d have to call security. Between the smoke, the parasites, and the bedbugs, I swear, at this point I’m one emergency alert away from answering the door wearing a hazmat suit and oven mitts.

Back on topic: Years ago my mother‑in‑law’s house had bedbugs, and how they got in was shocking. She had a live‑in caregiver who, unbeknownst to the family, had a hobby of writing to prisoners. On her days off, she went to state prisons to meet some of the men she’d been corresponding with where she was gifted with the critters.

Bedbugs are known to spread from one care facility to another via workers who hold multiple jobs in multiple facilities. If our Assisted Living or Memory Care buildings ever get bedbugs, they’d quickly spread to my Independent Living building because many spouses live in IL while their partners are in one of the other buildings. It’s one of the selling points of continuum‑care campuses — a short walk gets you a daily visit (conjugal or otherwise) without driving halfway across town.  

Oh, yes, Michigan doesn’t need a state motto — it needs a warning label. 

The ecosystems around the world are becoming more and more interconnected, and disasters in one region ripple outward — whether it’s a war that disrupts shipping lines, a pandemic that refuses to stay on one continent, or produce that isn’t handled properly and ends up being distributed far and wide. We’ve come a long way in the last hundred years; towns no longer dump factory waste and raw sewage into rivers. But I still wonder how people back then couldn’t see that that was a bad idea. Just as I wonder how someone can sit in the Oval Office and be so short‑sighted and vindictive against our neighbors to the north. Call it Karma or cause and effect, everything that goes around, comes around. ©

See you all next Wednesday. In the meantime, let's all keep Canada in our hearts and thoughts. It's not only the forests they are losing to the fires, but also lives, homes and wildlife.