Category: Adulting

Are my arms not long enough, or is my eyesight getting worse?

Are my arms not long enough or is my eyesight getting worse?

I have worn glasses since I turned 20. My favorite pastime in the university’s library’s old book area  finally  took its toll. I always loved reading. I started reading early and as a bilingual child I had a lot of reading material – I had books in two languages to read.

In Haifa, there was a tiny book store that held treasures galore and when my parents took me there to choose a book I was so happy, I usually finished the book by the time we got home.

Libraries were my other favorite place, books , books and more books.

Over the years my library expanded and took a lot of space, I took 3 boxes of books with me when we moved to the USA many years ago.

These days I have a Kindle, but I still go back to my leather bound old Damon Ranyon book every once in a while. There is something magical about a real book.

I always needed glasses for seeing, never for reading. And then something happened in the  last year. My arms got shorter – that is my only explanation for why I could not read  on my cell phone or why it was getting harder to read on the laptop unless I moved them both a little farther from me.

There was no way I needed reading glasses, I am not old!

So I scheduled an Ophthalmologist appointment, and I got the good news and the bad news. The good news- my eyesight was getting better, I really do not need glasses to see. I blame my hearing loss. I had a virus attack my ears six years ago and I lost my hearing.

Losing one sense fixed in a way another sense. My eyesight got better and so did my sense of smell.

The bad news – I need reading glasses.

When I lost my hearing I was in my mid fifties and since I lost it overnight and have to wear hearing aids, I did not see it as a sign of getting older despite everyone telling me stories about their grandmother and her hearing aids.

But reading glasses is something completely different, it is admitting that I am getting older. Not an easy thing to admit even though I know technically that I am getting closer to sixty.

I have a new pair of glasses and it is helping with the reading. But if you ask me it is not the glasses, it is the pilates classes that I am taking that are helping my arms get longer.

The Joy of Making Things That Aren’t Amazing

When I was in elementary school, we had an optional ceramics class. My parents signed me up, and I gave it a try. Unfortunately, ceramics was not really my specialty, but I did make many, many ashtrays. This was back in the 70s, when smoking was still everywhere.

My ashtrays were not particularly good—or even round—but my parents displayed them all over the house, and I was very proud of my artistic capability.

I never took ceramics again, and my crafting and art misadventures continued through adulthood. Every once in a while, I would try something new and quickly discover that my brain does not really function that way, and crafting tends to frustrate me. There has always been a big disconnect between what my brain imagines the outcome should be and what my hands actually create.

This past year, I started looking for a stress-relief hobby and tried a couple of easy DIY crafts. Most of them were… not amazing.

Then I found soap making.

I discovered that I really enjoy making soap. Creating new shapes, colors, and scent combinations is really fun for me—and my soaps are actually pretty!

Soap making became a creative outlet and a great way to relieve stress. As an added bonus, my house smells amazing despite having a dog.

From soap came resin. The mixing and creating process is similar, but my resin creations are not quite as amazing as my soaps—and my house now has more than enough coasters. These coasters remind me of my ashtray-making years. They really are not amazing, but I am still happy to display them around the house and post them on social media.

Our achievements are not always grand or impressive, but we should be proud of them anyway—especially if they make us happy. At the end of the day, that is what really counts.

So let’s agree to display our achievements and our art projects. Who cares if others think they are not amazing? What matters is that we do.

Short-Staffed and Suds-Obsessed

There is a saying that in life there are no second chances. Luckily, in soap, there are.

I started making soap not so long ago. I never intended to be one of those “crafty” people who makes their own lotions at home; I became one of these soap people quite by accident.

For the last eight months, I’ve worked 12–14 days in a row without a break. Between extreme timelines, a gazillion events, and being short-staffed, I was working with no tomorrow, no extra pay, and no vacation time. I burned out. I was overly stressed and ready to quit without a second thought.

Around that time, a friend hosted a Galentine’s decoupage party. Newsflash: I hate decoupage. Peeling napkins, cutting tiny shapes, and gluing them onto things only made me more annoyed. But that’s when I realized I needed a hobby—something to relax and center me again.

I tried several things, including soap making. I bought a simple kit online and my first attempt was a complete failure. Yet, something in the process made me want to try again. It might have been my brain remembering the chemistry set my parents gave me as a teenager—a set I absolutely loved.

I was hooked. It created a monster.

Now, I’m constantly trying new scents, watching tutorials, and finding creative ways to make beautiful bars. I even keep a notebook next to my bed in case an idea strikes in the middle of the night. I’m by no means an expert, but I am enjoying every moment of the process—even the failures.

With soap, if it doesn’t come out the way you wanted the first time, you get that second chance. You just melt it down and try to create something new and improved.

It might be true that in life there are no second chances—but what if, like soap, we just need to be willing to melt things down and start over?

Confessions of a 58 year old pirate!

At the ripe old age of 58, I finally achieved my goal of becoming a pirate.

Not the sea-faring, world-traveling kind. Not the eye-patch version — my eyesight is still fine. Not the wooden-leg type either, although I did break my leg a couple of years ago.

No, I’m the scurvy kind.

Yes. Apparently my vitamin C levels are low.

I take a GLP-1 medication to control my insulin levels. I should also be following a healthy diet. But me being me — which apparently means modern-day pirate — I don’t.

I forget to eat.

It’s a problem I’ve always had, even before the GLP injections. Being hypoglycemic never helped. The GLP-1 just made it worse.

And if you think forgetting to eat sounds like a good thing — it isn’t. I get severe stomach acid, my blood sugar goes wild, and I feel nauseous all day.

You would think being an adult and a mother I’d know better.

I do know better.

I just don’t follow my own advice.

When I started bruising easily and healing slowly, I finally spoke to my endocrinologist. Now I drink half a glass of orange juice a day and take supplements.

So pirate it is — at least until my levels are back to normal.

The upside? I don’t need to choose a costume for the next party.

It’s built in.

I Do Not Hear, and He Does Not Listen

A deeply personal essay about sudden hearing loss, marriage, and the invisible gap between sound and understanding.

I like to say that my left ear is for decorative purposes only. It holds my glasses and I can put beautiful jewelry in it — beyond that, nothing more. I simply have no other use for it.

Five and a half years ago, I lost my hearing overnight. I went to bed with severe ringing and woke up to silence.

I saw doctors. I had a brain MRI. They found nothing wrong with my brain — contrary to what my husband thinks. I got the typical solution when no clear diagnosis appears: a virus.

I love the virus diagnosis. It encompasses everything and yet explains absolutely nothing.

My left ear has five percent hearing, which in reality amounts to nothing. Hence, decorative purposes only.

My right ear is slightly better — but only slightly. I wear hearing aids. Good, expensive ones. And yet my hearing will never be the same.

I love it when people say, “But you wear hearing aids — can’t you hear normally?”

No. I can’t.

Hearing aids are not glasses. They do not fix the problem 100%. If anything, they sometimes create more noise.

The world is a very loud place. Very loud.

My brain does not always tolerate the constant sound. In loud places, it takes enormous effort to figure out where sounds are coming from and what people are saying. Sometimes I just want to go home, take out the aids, swallow two painkillers, and sit in silence with the migraine that follows.

Those around us who have not experienced this often don’t understand — even the ones who walked through the hearing loss journey with us.

My husband and I were planning dinner with friends. He suggested a restaurant.

“Yes, it’s nice,” I said. “But I can’t hear anything in there.”

“It’s great,” he replied. “I don’t think it’s loud.”

He is lucky I did not hit him.

I looked at him and asked, “Did you not hear what I just said? I am, after all, the deaf one.”

He repeated himself.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s not loud for you.”

For me, the acoustics are terrible. There’s loud music, dozens of conversations, clattering plates — and I hear everything and nothing all at once. I just sit there, feeling like a decoration. Me and my ear.

I explained myself again. I’m not sure he fully understood. But we’re going somewhere else — somewhere that won’t leave me with a migraine and screaming tinnitus.

It’s funny how I do not hear, and he does not listen.

Maybe funny. Maybe a little sad.

Fear, Manta Rays, and a Bathing Suit

A journey from fear to fun in a one-piece

Like many women my age—and honestly, women in general—I have a fear of a particular article of clothing in my closet: the bathing suit.

Last month I went on vacation to the Caribbean. A vacation that involved pools, snorkeling, diving with manta rays, and—unfortunately—a bathing suit.

I do own one or two, though I can’t remember when I bought them. Sometime before COVID, which means it’s safe to assume six or seven years ago. I even have access to a heated pool in my neighborhood and one at the gym, but I haven’t used either since my kids reached double digits.

I usually tell people I don’t swim because I don’t want to ruin my hair color. And while that’s a valid excuse, it’s not the whole truth—I could always wear a swim cap. The real reason is simple: I don’t like being in a bathing suit.

We were taught, sadly, that only skinny women—or perfectly toned women—should wear bathing suits in public. I’m five-foot-nothing, curvy, in my late fifties, and I’ve had three kids.

Confidence in my body has never been my strong suit (pun intended). But as I get closer to sixty, something has shifted. I’ve reached the point where I truly don’t care about the “silly” things anymore—how I look or what other people think.

So I went snorkeling. I swam with manta rays. I wore the bathing suit. And I enjoyed every single moment.

Did I look like a Victoria’s Secret model? No.
I looked like a happy, confident, mature woman who really doesn’t give a shit.

So wear the bathing suit. Wear the shorts.
And be happy exactly the way you are.

Sobriety Checkpoints and the Curse of an Honest Face

I was stopped at a sobriety checkpoint last night on my way home from an office party.

The officer asked where I was coming from and whether I’d been drinking. I said no. He looked at my face for a beat, smiled, and said, “I believe you. You can go.”

I hadn’t been drinking. I don’t drink alcohol at all. My gastroenterologist suspects I have an alcohol intolerance—alcohol destroys my stomach—and being on a GLP-1 injection only makes the effects worse. So the answer was honest, but the instant acceptance still surprised me.

I found the whole interaction oddly amusing. There were signs well before the stop announcing the checkpoint, so anyone who had been drinking already knew how to avoid the area. Which made me wonder: what was it about my face that made him decide not to look any further?

The amused expression, maybe. It’s gotten me into trouble before. I was once dismissed from jury duty because I apparently failed to conceal my opinion that the defense attorney was an idiot. I forgot my poker face that day.

Gemini says I have an “infectious glow.” My daughter thinks that might be true. I call bullshit.

I thanked the officer and drove on, still amused—once again reminded that my face has a habit of telling the truth before I do.

Redefining Useful

One of my new year resolutions was to strive to do something useful every day. I did not define “useful” on purpose; I decided that useful would be anything that deemed useful to me.

Over the last three or four weeks, I did do a couple of useful things. I took a vacation. I swam with manta rays and snorkeled in the Bahamas. I organized one shelf of my yoga pants. And today, I watered the garden.

To some, all of this might seem menial and not really useful, but to my overwhelmed brain, every one of these things was useful.

My brain has been in overdrive for the last couple of months — family health issues, work, and everyday life. Sleep has not been good, and worry took over.

So taking some time off has been useful, including “just” watering the patio today.

Make your own useful to-do lists. Make sure they work for you. And take mental days as well — trust me, they are useful.

A Thousand Weddings & Other Polite Curses.



The art of wishing someone “well”


My grandmother-in-law, may she rest in peace, used to wish people she didn’t like that she hoped they would go to a thousand weddings.
On its face, it sounds like a wonderful blessing. Attending many joyful celebrations sounds delightful. Only later did I understand what she really meant: wedding gifts.
In my culture, we give cash—generous amounts of cash—for weddings and other celebrations. Going to many weddings can be a serious financial burden, and when we were a young couple, it certainly wasn’t easy.
My father likes to “bless” people with a Yiddish phrase that translates to: may you be like an onion—your head in the ground and your legs in the air. It’s especially funny once you picture it.
All these “wishful thoughts” are passive-aggressive at best, but truly hilarious when you think about them. Generations before mine used humor, creativity, and even politeness when they wanted to curse someone.
It was an art form—one I deeply appreciate.
What are the funny phrases your family used?

Introverts, Dogs, and Gardens: Why We’re the Perfect Pair”

They say that dogs and their humans tend to be alike. In our case, it feels like fate.

Our girl is a rescue. We have no clue how old she is. All we know is that she and her seven siblings were taken from a hoarding situation. They were not fed, had no water, received no medical care, and were eventually seized by police and animal control.

Our girl is purebred and expensive, which somehow makes the fact that she was neglected even stranger.

Since we got her fully matured from a rescue, there wasn’t much information about her. All we knew was that she was good with other dogs and very curious.

Next week is our gotcha day, and I’ve realized just how alike we are.

We both hate crowds. We’re both introverts who would rather enjoy our sofa after a hard day of working—or barking.

We both love to garden. I love to plant, and she loves to dig, so we’re a match made in heaven.

We both like to eat—especially good food and bananas, which we often share. We also both love our vegetables; she gets all my cucumbers.

So here’s to another year of digging, gardening, and stealing each other’s snacks. No matter what comes next, we’ll face it as the best duo we know how to be—just a couple of introverts who love their couch.”