The Distant Star Theory of Blogging

The legendary 1930’s essay ‘In Awe of Words’ often circles back to the quiet reasons we write — the rhythms that steady us, the connections that surprise us, and the memories that tug us forward. In this reflection, Jean revisits an old pandemic-era post, a favorite Steinbeck quote, and the complicated dance between observing life and participating in it. What emerges is a meditation on friendship, aging, and the strange, sustaining companionship of blogging… AI

Every so often an old post shows up in my “Most Read in the Last Seven Days” column, and I'll know people have been poking around in my archives, maybe even shared one of my links. If the title doesn’t ring that proverbial bell, I’ll click on it myself. That’s what happened with a piece I wrote during the pandemic six years ago. When I opened This Too Shall Pass… I found one of my all-time favorite quotes by John Steinbeck — a quote worth repeating in this forum of bloggers who enjoy the art of writing for whatever reason: personal pleasure, documenting our lives, or monetizing our blogs in hopes of fame or fortune.

If I had done the latter and been paid a penny a click over the past ten years, I would have made $46,254.97. Roughly $4,625.50 a year. Hoop dee doo. I’m glad I never did that. Money makes you a slave to the consumer of your content.

Nope. Steinbeck nailed my reasons for blogging In Awe of Words when he wrote:

“A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — ‘Yes, that’s the way it is… You’re not as alone as you thought.’”

That quote still hits me like a tuning fork.

In a reply to one of the comments on that old post, I wrote that blogging gives a rhythm to my weeks. That’s still true. But it’s also becoming more important, now, for me to connect with people out in cyberspace because I feel more and more disconnected from the people I live with here in my Continuum Care Community.

That’s partly because roughly a quarterly of the original residents that all moved in when I did (when the place was brand-new) have died or had to move to other buildings for more care. And every time that happens its a reminder that life is fragile. But it's also partly my own fault. I chose the double life I’m living as a kind of undercover reporter writing about my fellow residents. I observe. I make judgments, fair or otherwise. I hold nothing back when I write. But in person I hold back most of what’s going on in my head. On one hand, you can’t make deeper connections without taking risks and sharing our thoughts. On the other hand, civilized society doesn’t stay civil if we vocalize every observation and thought out loud in close-knit places like this. I have causal friends here, but no one close.

Early on, when management was looking for someone to write a weekly column for the CCC’s blog, my name came up because I started the creative writing club. But I refused. It sounded too hard to write about all the events going on while keeping my personal observations and quirky humor in check. I learned that lesson back in the ’80s when I wrote my first family history book and characterized the hometown of my nieces and nephew in a way my oldest niece didn’t think was fair. She was editing the book, and I ended up softening my description. That experience taught me that writing for community consumption is different from writing about a community. The family history book wasn’t about me, nor would an official CCC blog be — nor should they be. “Just give me the facts, ma’am,” as Sergeant Joe Friday supposedly said on Dragnet.

Except he didn’t. When I googled it, AI told me Joe Friday never actually said that line. What he said was, “All we want are the facts, ma’am.” A radio parody cemented the version we all remember.

And this — right here — is the point in my post where I’m supposed to come up with something profound or universal. Something that ties all these threads together. Something that makes readers nod and think, Yes, that’s the way it is for me, too.

But damn if that doesn’t get harder to do the older I get.

I look back on the friendships I’ve treasured over the years and I see a pattern: complete trust, a shared sense of humor, mutual respect for each other’s opinions, and the ability to really see each other — foibles and all. That kind of connection doesn’t come along every day. And it doesn’t always stay the same.

Friendship has been on my mind for a couple of months now, ever since my best friend since kindergarten was moved to an assisted living facility. She calls me sometimes ten to twenty times a day. I’ve changed her ringtone to something unique so I don’t have to run to find my phone every time it rings. And I’ve made it a rule to answer her only once a day. When I do, I put on my Clown Hat and entertain her with stories about life in my CCC or about our shared experiences growing up. She talks about the same theme every day — how she wants someone to take her home. I leave her laughing. She leaves me exhausted.

In days past, we walked back and forth to school every day of grade school and high school. We did everything together. We taught each other what friendship truly is. I thank the powers of the universe for putting us together all those years ago. And now we’ve come full circle with a slew of daily phone calls about nonsense and nothing not unlike what we used to do as boy-crazy teenagers.

Maybe that’s the universal thread I’ve been trying to find: connection doesn’t disappear as we age — it just changes shape. It becomes more intentional, more fragile, more precious. Sometimes it happens in the dining room or on a park bench here on campus. Sometimes it happens in a phone call about nothing. And sometimes it happens in the quiet space between a writer and a reader, we're like a distant star sends out a signal and hoping someone will feel the vibration and think, Yes. That’s the way it is for me, too. ©

My First Big GLP‑1 Test: Surviving the Dessert Club Without a Banana Split

Jean wonders if willpower shows up in the small, unglamorous moments — the ones no one applauds, the ones that happen at a farm table or a dessert club or in the quiet recalibration of daily habits. In this post, she writes about a surprisingly triumphant Thursday: a slice of lemonade cake, a room full of banana splits, and the complicated business of changing her relationship with food while navigating the opinions, assumptions, and whispered commentary that swirl around weight loss. It’s a story about discipline, dignity, and the delicate art of keeping one’s own counsel... AI

I did it. I got through a meeting of our First Thursdays Desserts Only Club without ordering a HUGE banana split like everyone else. And I didn’t have to out myself as a new recruit in another group: those of us getting the GLP‑1 Zepbound shots for weight loss. There I was, surrounded by eight people all enjoying my favorite food group in the whole wide world, and I didn’t have food envy and I didn’t feel deprived. The only thing I felt was miffed that I got charged fifty cents more for my small slice of lemonade cake with strawberries on top — while the banana splits came with three gigantic scoops of ice cream, chocolate syrup, nuts, whipped cream, three cherries, plus a whole banana. I’d worried this challenge would test me beyond my ability to resist going off my diet.

I was also worried others would ask why I wasn’t indulging, especially since I was one of the two founding members of the group nearly a year ago. A couple of people even offered me some of their ice cream since I said I didn’t like the cake — that was my excuse for only eating half of it. That’s what Zepbound GLP‑1 does. It’s a natural hormone our stomachs produce that tells you when you’re full, and if you know what’s good for you, you stop eating when it makes that call. I haven’t been able to finish a meal since I started the shots two weeks ago. And the “food noise” in my head is entirely gone. To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that ‘you’re full’ message before in my life. As a child who had to sit at the table until my plate was clean I’m guessing that trained me not to hear it.

Still, you have to count calories every day while on GLP-1, but the strangely foreign part is you count them to make sure you’re eating enough calories and protein. Every time your weight changes, you have to re‑calibrate your DTEE (Total Daily Energy Expenditure), then deduct 500 from that number — that’s the number of calories you try to eat each day to lose two pounds a week. If you fall short, you’re burning muscle instead of fat.

I’ve lost 15 pounds in 27 days, but part of that was before I began the shots, just by doing the DTEE‑minus‑500 trick and doubling my protein. I’ve since been trying to triple my protein, but that’s really hard when I don’t cook my own meals and institutional food is high in carbs and sauces. I’ve also been walking every day and going to the gym every other day. For the naysayers who poo‑poo those of us on GLP‑1, thinking we’re taking the easy route, they don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s a tool, but it doesn’t make you lose weight without putting in the work of changing old habits.

The first sign that I’ve lost fifteen pounds is that it made my shoes — of all things — feel too big and my face look slimmer. The second sign was being able to get into a size‑smaller pair of blue jeans. So far one person has noticed, and when she asked if I was losing weight, I faked surprise and said, “What? Did you find some?” Everyone in the elevator laughed, and I added that I’ve been walking more. I don’t intend to lie (except by omission), but I’m not going to share what I’m doing if I can help it.

Why? Because I was sitting at our farm table when our tech guy went past — he’s lost 140 pounds on GLP‑1 — and I heard some unkind comments about how could “he let himself get so fat” and how he’s “cheating to lose weight.” Lots of positive comments were made, too, but you know how it is: you can hear twenty good things, but it’s the one or two bad things you obsess about. I think that’s human nature, or it could just be Jean Nature.

There are three of us in my Independent Living building who are obese, and I’m number three if anyone were to rank us from heaviest to lowest. I’m frequently at the farm table with the guy at the top, and the way others talk about him when he’s not there is awful. And while I’m probably 75 pounds lighter than him and 50 lighter than the woman in the number‑two spot, I imagine I’m the topic of a few snide, body‑shaming remarks as well.

It’s easy to see that he struggles with “food noise” in his head. He never leaves leftover bread or butter on the table. He’ll ask us all to pass them down so he can take them back to his apartment because he “doesn’t want to see it get thrown out.” I struggle with seeing food wasted too. A lot of us in my generation are in the Clean Plate Club because of those poor kids in China who didn’t get enough to eat.

Number Two in our little obesity club has a husband who is an enabler. He’s normal weight and she has mobility issues because of her weight, but when we have buffets he’ll fill up a plate of all the desserts because, he says, “he doesn’t know which one his wife wants,” and you guessed it — she eats them all. He does the same thing with the main courses. He’s a retired minister who lovingly looks at his wife through strong rose‑colored glasses. You can’t help but like the guy, but he’s killing her with kindness.

Not that we fatty‑fatty‑2x4s can rightly blame our weight on someone else, but the world and people around us do influence our choices. If I were going to make a true confession along those lines, I’d say I’ve always been a ‘closet eater.’ Whenever someone would say, “Should you be eating that?” or “Is that on your diet?” I would put it down — then later I’d find a way to eat in secret, out of resentment for the control that person tried to have over me. And in between the admonishment and the secret eating the food noise in my head was so loud I’m surprised others couldn’t hear it.

And there, dear readers, is the main reason I don’t want to reveal that I’m trying to lose weight. I don’t want anyone looking at my plates and saying, “Should you be eating that?” or “why aren’t you eating?”

Change is hard enough without an audience, and this stretch of my journey feels like something I need to protect. So for now, I’m keeping my little GLP‑1 secret tucked away like contraband in a spy movie. I’ll keep showing up at dessert club with an alternate choice besides the 695 calorie banana splits, pretending I’m just “not in the mood”,” while everyone else demolishes their architectural ice cream masterpieces. If the weight keeps dropping, people can assume it’s from all my virtuous walking or possibly divine intervention. And if anyone else asks if I’m losing weight — and they will — I’ll just shrug and say, “Yes I am and don’t tell me where you found it. I don’t want it back.” ©

This is my New Mantra

                               

The CCC Chronicles: From Foot Doctors to Reflecting Pools

 

In this week’s dispatch from Jean’s Continuum Care Community, the everyday rhythms of aging collide with the absurdities of modern life — from firefighters hauling residents upstairs to a foot that stages a midnight rebellion to a national monument wrapped in drama like a bad home‑improvement project. Jean brings her trademark blend of humor, candor, and side‑eye to the small dramas of communal living and the larger drama unfolding in Washington. As always, she finds the thread that ties them together....AI

“Who got picked up by the ambulance last night?” That’s a frequent topic of conversation at lunch or dinner tables here on my Continuum Care Campus. But today it was a different twist. The question was, “Why was the fire department here so long?”

The answer: the elevator in one of our buildings quit working, stranding several of our more fragile residents on the first floor when the repair crew couldn’t get a needed part until this morning. So the firefighters (stationed three minutes away) had to carry people up to their apartments. It was either that or they’d have to cuddle up on the couch in front of the lobby’s fireplace which wouldn’t be such a bad choice if it was winter, and not so close to the forth of July.

There are other times when our mealtime conversations turn into a litany of aches and pains, sounding like the very jokes younger people make about our age group. As Maxine of calendar fame says, "At my age, a 'balanced life' means 50% aches and 50% pains."

But for the most part, we leave our aches and pains at our apartment doors. Still, here’s a piece of advice if you’re thinking of moving to a CCC: don’t downsize your greeting card stash. I’ve written more “get well” and “thinking of you” cards (and “birthday,” and “sympathy cards”) since moving here than at any other time in my life. Not a week goes by that I’m not digging through my card drawer.

I’m no exception when it comes to having my own list of medical woes. I have a foot doctor, a hand doctor, and an orthopedist for the rest of the bones in my body. I’ve got an ENT, a dermatologist, an eye doctor, a gastroenterologist, a sleep doctor, an urogynecologist, a primary doctor, a nurse practitioner — and a dentist. Who could ask for anything more? Not me. I’m one of the lucky ones, though. A few  of my fellow residents have cancer and heart doctors on their lists.

Despite having all those people on my medical team, last week I decided Dr. Google was a better choice. I typed in my symptoms, and their AI “doctor” told me that shooting pain around an open sore meant I should go to Urgent Care immediately because it could be an infection. Not wanting to do that, I called my foot doctor’s office. They tried to schedule me a month out — until I repeated the magic words “shooting pain” and “open sore.” Suddenly I had an appointment the next day. Thank you, Dr. Google, for the buzzwords.

This all started just after my six‑month check‑up with my sleep doctor, where I gave him a glowing report. I shouldn’t have done that — it jinxed me. That very night the shooting pains started, waking me up and refusing to let me sleep again. My foot looked like the photo below. Actually, worse — that picture was taken after a week of swallowing antibiotics and daily slathering the area with silver sulfadiazine cream. 

The foot doctor claims there are no broken bones, but I don’t believe her or her X‑rays because it hurts too much. The weirdest part is I have no idea what caused it. I don’t remember hitting my foot, dropping anything on it, or doing anything dramatic like letting a stranger suck my toes. All I’m told is that the X-ray shows no infection or broken bones, but "skin bruises easily on the elderly” and the foot is “the slowest place to heal.”

Yup, I know that, doc. I had a similar gash on the side of the same foot recently, and it took four months to heal without medical intervention.

Lest I give the impression that all we talk about here is ourselves and our woes — not true. Recently at our Tuesday Night Conversation dinner table we discussed the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, the cost of repairing it, and the claim that “vandals” cut a 350‑foot slit down the center despite 24/7 security cameras. I’ve got a bridge to sell you if you believe that. (But not the brand new bridge between Canada and Detroit that Trump refuses to allow to be opened, but that's another scandal for another day.) 

We can all read the news and draw our own conclusions about the pool, but around our dinner table the story sounds a lot less like “vandals” and a lot more like, “someone had their head up his ass.” You don’t need a PhD to connect a few dots: With cameras everywhere they would have stopped anyone in the center of the pool long enough to cut a 350 foot slit; a no‑bid contract that included no oversight by manufacturers of the liner polyuria coatings; and the presidential motorcade running over the uncured coating so Trump could get a closer look. The presidential limo alone weighs about 20,000 pounds, which is roughly the size of a small whale — and we’re supposed to believe a mystery vandal with a box cutter is the culprit. Please.

It doesn't take a deep dive in cyberspace to learn the experts all agree the failed project is due to one or more of the following: 1) improper preparation of the surface, 2) not applying the polyuria according to manufacturer’s specifications, 3) speeding up the timeline for applying a second coating, 4) the solvent added to kill the algae, and last but not least, 5) vehicles running over the uncured surface. 

Everything shows its age eventually — our bodies, our buildings, even the places meant to inspire awe. Here at the CCC, we meet those changes with humor and a little stubbornness, because what else can you do. The reflecting pool could be funny too, if it weren’t such an expensive lesson in what happens when oversight and comment sense takes a holiday. We can’t stop time from aging us or our monuments, but we can at least insist that the people in charge stop accelerating the process. © 

Nabbed off Dawn's Bohemian Valhalla Blog