THE RIGHT WORD

At my age (73 and 11/12, but who’s counting), I don’t get excited about much. But give me the right word? I will ride that high all day.

There are moments in life when I can't find the right word ... nothing fits. Not “annoying” as it is far more than just annoying.  Not “difficult.” Not even “what on earth is wrong with people?”

And then...just like finding the perfect pair of jeans ...I discover … the right word. Suddenly everything makes sense to my situation.

This week?  Martinet.

A strict enforcer of rules, often to an unreasonable degree.

Oh hello. Where have you been all my life?  This week a WLLO General (volunteer) sent me five emails before 9am screwing down on everything I did the day before. Like she got up on the wrong side of her broom.

The Joy of “Naming It”

This is my real theme: When I finally have the right word, I feel: calmer, validated, a bit superior (I'm being honest here)

It’s not just a word. It’s closure.

A few other words from this month ~

Luddite
Someone who resists new technology.  The annoying part is that they then ASK for us to look it up for them.

Dithering
Unable to make a decision.  It seems like we have several team leaders here at WLLO who have this this inability to commit.  Which often looks like some volunteers should do a task a certain way, but other volunteers are not required to do so.

Oblivious
Completely unaware.  Rarely responds when the situation calls for an email.  Then suddenly weighs in when they are not even remotely involved in a particular decision.  OBLIVIOUS.

Of course, once you start collecting “right words”… you realize some of them apply a little closer to home. (Like "intransigent" applies to me quite often, I'm sure)

At this age, I’m not trying to fix people. I’m just trying to understand them … preferably with a really excellent vocabulary.

I may not say these words out loud. But in my head? I am now extremely well-spoken.

AM I SO VAIN?

I asked myself this very serious, very philosophical question while standing at my bathroom counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at my forearms like they had personally betrayed me.

(photo taken on my bedspread rather than white countertop)

When did they get… freckly? Speckly? Spotty? When did they start looking like a topographical map of the Oregon Trail? And more importantly— why was I suddenly planning a weekly “Zap Night”?

This Sunday, I officially begin my new skincare routine:

• One Braun Silk-expert Pro 5 IPL

• One bottle of something called AmLactin (which sounds suspiciously like farm equipment)

• A retinol that warns me—gently—“you may experience mild irritation” (translation: buckle up)

And just to really round things out…

I’m buying my kid a red light therapy panel for her 40th birthday in May. For her, of course. Absolutely for her. I will simply be … testing it. Extensively. On my face. Daily.

Now before you judge me, let me explain. This is not vanity. This is… maintenance.

The same way we:

• color our hair
• wear readers in every room of the house
• and make a small, dignified noise every time we stand up

We adapt. Because somewhere along the way, something shifts. At 30, you look in the mirror and think: “Do I look okay?” At 50, you think: “Is that new?” At 70+, you think: “Well … THAT wasn’t there yesterday.”

And yet… here’s the thing. I don’t actually want to look 30. I don’t even want to look 50. I just want to look like me… but slightly less sun-damaged. Is that too much to ask?

(why yes! those are not my legs)

So yes.
Starting today, April 19, I will be quietly zapping my arms and hands. Every Sunday.

On Monday, I will be exfoliating.

On Tuesday, I will be renewing. And wearing little white cotton gloves to bed.

And at some point after May 22, I will be sitting in front of a glowing red panel like I’m trying to contact extraterrestrial life.

And honestly?  I’m kind of okay with it.  Because this isn’t about chasing youth.

It’s about taking care of the skin that got me here.

The same hands that:

• drove carpools
• held babies
• worked in the yard
• made dinners
• and now… occasionally hold a glass of wine while Googling “age spots vs something worse”

These old hands and arms deserve a little attention.

So am I vain?

Maybe.

But I prefer to think of it as selective enthusiasm for not looking like a parchment document from 1847.

And if you need me Sunday night… I’ll be in the bathroom. Zapping.

BE KIND. It’s Not THAT Hard ...

There’s a little sign making the rounds lately that simply says: “Be kind. It’s not that hard.”

And every time I see it, I think:
Well… theoretically.  Because if kindness were truly not that hard, we wouldn’t need the reminder printed on mugs, stitched on pillows, or—if I had my way—tattooed on a few foreheads.

I had one of those days.

You know the kind.  Where most everyone is being perfectly pleasant… and yet somehow, by the end of it, you feel like you’ve been gently steamrolled by a parade of good intentions.

No one is yelling.
No one is being mean.
But also? No one is really listening.

Kindness isn’t just about tone. It’s not the cheerful “Hi there!” or the exclamation point at the end of a sentence. It’s not the appearance of being nice.

Kindness is awareness.

It’s noticing that someone has already rearranged their schedule—and maybe not rearranging it again.
It’s understanding that “I’m not able to attend” is not an invitation to negotiate.  It’s recognizing that not everyone thrives in the same environments, at the same volume, at the same pace.

Kindness, it turns out, requires a tiny bit of effort. Not a lot. Just… a pause. And here’s the tricky part.

Most people think they’re being kind.

They’re organizing.
They’re including.
They’re following “procedures.”
They’re making sure everything is just so.

All very admirable. But kindness isn’t about how something looks from your side of the table.  It’s about how it lands on the other side.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life softening things.

Adding extra words.
Smoothing edges.
Explaining—oh, the explaining—so no one might possibly misunderstand.

But lately, I’m learning something new. Kindness also includes being kind to yourself. And sometimes that looks like this:

“No, I’m not able to do that.”

Full stop. No essay. No apology tour. No supporting documentation. Just… no.

The funny thing is, when you start doing that, the world does not end. People adjust. Or they don’t.
But either way, you’re no longer exhausted from trying to make everyone else comfortable at your own expense.

And that, my friends, feels like a small miracle.

So yes. Be kind. Truly kind.

Not just in tone, but in action. In awareness. In restraint. Listen a little more. Push a little less. Assume that if someone says “no,” they’ve already thought it through.

Because kindness isn’t complicated.

It’s just… apparently… harder than it looks.“Be kind. It’s simple. Just not always easy.”

P.S.  There are some days I have to make a post-it that says BE KIND and stick it on my laptop.

I have a question. A simple one. When did ordering coffee start requiring a translator, a glossary, and possibly a minor in chemistry?

Back in my day—(and yes, I hear myself saying that, thank you very much)—you walked into a coffee shop and said one of three things:

“I’ll have coffee.”
“I’ll have coffee with cream.”
Or, if you were feeling wild:
“Coffee. Black.”

And that was it. No follow-up questions. No clarifications. No emotional journey. You paid. You received coffee. You left.

Now?

Now I stand in line behind someone who orders: A tall half-caf oat milk matcha latte with an extra shot, caramel swirl, two pumps of vanilla, light foam, extra hot—but not too hot—in a grande cup.

In a grande cup.

Which is not, as one might assume, the same as a tall. Because of course it isn’t.

And here’s the thing—I’m not even mad at the person ordering. I’m a little impressed. Truly. The confidence. The precision. The complete mastery of a beverage I didn’t even know existed.

But I am a little nostalgic.

Because somewhere along the way, we lost something important:

The Coffee Only Line.

Oh yes. It existed. At a very busy Starbucks (and maybe others, but that’s where I saw it) in Beaverton, Oregon there was once a magical, glorious option:

A separate line for people who just wanted… coffee.

No syrups.
No foam debates.
No existential milk choices.

Just coffee.

You poured your own, put cash in the basket and within seconds—SECONDS—you were on your way.

It was a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile, today’s baristas deserve a standing ovation.

They are managing:

In-person orders
App orders
Drive-thru orders
And a growing list of drinks that sound like dessert met a science experiment

All while putting names on cups or a friendly "have a good day" and keeping a straight face when someone asks for “just a hint of lavender but not too floral.”

Honestly? They’re heroes.

And then there’s the generational divide.

My teen orders something called an affogato after dinner like he’s been living in Italy his whole life. I’m still over here thinking, what is an affogato? “Is it hot? Is it cold? Why is there ice cream involved?” He explained it to me after ordering.

But maybe this is just how things evolve. Coffee didn’t get more complicated. It got more… expressive. Personal. Creative. A little over the top?

Yes. But also kind of wonderful.

Still.

If anyone out there is listening… If any brave coffee shop owner wants to change the world…

Bring back the Coffee Only Line.

You will have a loyal following of slightly confused, mildly impatient, nostalgically inclined customers who just want a cup of coffee and five extra minutes of their lives back.

I’ll be first in line. The short one. With the simple order.

“Coffee. Just… coffee.”