Editor’s Note

Messing with holiday menus is not on the table with our crowd. A few of us give lip service to change, but when the “Who’s bringing what?” text circulates, we fall back to the reliable standbys. ...

The size of a TV remote control, The Ghost Meter ($49.95 on Amazon) requires only a 9-volt battery and an open mind. It was a gift from my husband, the same man who gave me a pearl necklace when we were dating. Thirty-seven years later, our lives are in a different place, a far more frightening one, judging by his gift. ...

I don’t actively encourage candid photos of myself. I tolerate them for the greater good of reality. Candids capture messy moments, the this-is-what-it-was-really-like times of our lives. ...

If I’m comparing stripper names at 63, then it’s appropriate for a 63-year-old — on equal footing, so to speak, as in our discussion about which pricey sneakers are best for plantar fasciitis. ...

We eventually saw a non-pet alligator and about two dozen babies, but not their mother. She was nearby, our guide said, but even he didn’t like being around babies without knowing where their mom was. Too dangerous. ...

It’s taken me nearly 50 years to return to a gym. My husband and I recently joined a fitness center so we wouldn’t spend winter evenings pre-napping in front of the TV before heading to bed. There may be worse reasons for joining a gym, but I haven’t heard them. ...

I’m mad at my phone. No matter how bad I look, it recognizes my face. The phone’s facial recognition feature has seen me at my worst: sleepy, sweaty, frizzy and just plain ratty. I rarely let the dog see me this way. Nevertheless, the phone scans my face, says, “Yup, that’s definitely Marie,” and opens: a judge, jury and executioner of microchips and wires that sees me even when I don’t look like me. ...

Editor’s Note

Maybe I’ve been watching too many home makeover shows — and there’s a 100% chance that’s true — but I’m tackling a renovation of my own this summer: Control Revamp 2022.

Big stuff, minor stuff, it doesn’t matter. I’ve stockpiled a lifetime of frustration trying to force things to happen that are beyond my influence. I’m done with it.

Here’s an example that should have taken me down this road of revelation decades ago but didn’t: When I was 16, I lost my driver’s education certificate, a document required for the driving part of the license exam. 

Unwilling to wait three weeks for a replacement, I borrowed a friend’s certificate, erased her name and typed mine in. An inexpert forgery by a teenager on a typewriter in the public library breakroom where I worked that summer should have been an easy catch for the license bureau worker, but he missed it. 

I took my driving test and got my license, but was busted almost immediately because the chagrined examiner realized (while I didn’t) that the certificate had a date indicating it had been used to get a driver’s license the week earlier. 

After an intimidating interview by a state trooper, a sobering appearance before a court referee, and a fine that took a chunk of my summer wages, I was dealt the biggest punishment of all: I had to wait six months before taking the test again.

Lessons Not Learned
I won’t rehash other Failure To Control issues in the decades since then. In hindsight, I should have learned to let things play out, see what happens, go with the flow. Apply your own euphemism.

My epiphany came last month when I tried snorkeling for the first time. I have an enormous amount of confidence when tackling new things, a confidence based on scant evidence and few skills.

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