Everyone Has Their Price

At 9:30 a.m. this morning, I was at the farmers market. I mention the time because I wanted you to know I was out of bed and wearing pants before 10:00 a.m. I often have pants on before 10:00. . . 

Our farmers market here in Stoughton is small and friendly. I thought it was pretty busy for 9:30, considering most people make a point of getting to the market early to get first pick of pasture-fed beef and handmade Scandinavia-influenced yard and decorative signs. Maybe people here are more laid-back because there were plenty of folks of all shapes and sizes with their dogs. I was with my friend Jack, and we watched one of the dogs take a dump next to a vegetable booth. We wondered when, or if, the poo would be managed. We didn't see anyone more concerned about it than we were. 

We interacted with a couple of other dogs who weren't pooping. We also interacted with vendors. We didn't pet them like we did the dogs, so it wasn't as satisfying. I did buy some things from them. 

A loaf of sourdough, some "Mango Tango" hot sauce and garlic beef sticks. Each item was $10. 

I should pause for a moment before I start complaining about paying $10 for hot sauce when we're over 1,900 miles away from the closest Erewon in Los Angeles. We can talk economies of scale and better ingredients, craftsmanship, and what the market will bear - but I'm wrestling with how easily I forked over a lot of dough for fresh artisanal, organic, slow-fermented sourdough from a local micro-bakery.

These days, all of us have been thinking a great deal about the price of things. I don't think this splurge means I've lost the right to complain about how much we're spending at Pick 'n Save each week. It's two different things. My bout of sticker shock this morning doesn't have much to do with the current state of corporate greed. In fact, according to the University of Wisconsin-Madison Extension: farmers' markets act as microeconomic engines that support local agriculture, retain profit margins for small family operations, and create a localized financial ripple effect that benefits neighboring retail shops and restaurants. 

I guess the farmers market knows my price. $10. And that's okay because I will be pouring Mango Tango hot sauce on everything - including stuff I don't plan on eating.

This Man is Choking to Death

This is William Windom. He's a character actor who played a ton of memorable roles, including Kevin Bacon's father-in-law in the John Hughes movie "She's Having a Baby". 

Of all of John Hughes' movies, "She's Having a Baby" is my favorite. Sure, "The Breakfast Club" did an incredible job of capturing my generation's angst, but it didn't get etched in my brain as deeply as "She's Having a Baby". 

One of the scenes I don't seem to be able to shake features William Windom. I was, and am, obsessed with his dog tag or health alert tag, or whatever it is hanging around his neck. The chain is tight. I know the goal was probably to give a visual cue that this guy has some quirks that justify him getting a dirty steak (watch the movie). But, wow, that chain is tight. 

A walk I took a few days ago may have unlocked for me why William's chain is so friggin' tight. 

See, during my walk, I noticed how tight my shirt was. If I lifted my arms, it would expose my ever-expanding gut. It was a shirt that I've worn for years, and I wasn't giving up on it even if it made me a match for Barney Gumble. I'm pretty sure kids were pointing and telling their parents that I looked like Winnie-the-Pooh, only depressed and sweaty. 

I grew out of my shirt like William Windom grew out of his dog tag. We didn't really notice it happening. It's the kind of change that creeps up on you, and the next thing you know, you're being choked to death or applying sunscreen to your oh-so-very-white underbelly. We wear the tag and the shirt because neither of us cares. We're old, and we don't give a shit. 

I'm still trying to decide if this makes me feel sad or liberated. Either way, you should see the shorts I'm wearing for my bike ride tomorrow. I feel bad for those who wind up behind me. My crack will be their ticket to Trauma Town. 

Steamed Chicken

As Stephen Colbert was wrapping up the last few episodes of his talk show, he took his audience behind the scenes for The Worst of The Late Show. He ate steamed chicken during the episode, and for a while, I became obsessed with steamed chicken. 

I didn't start making steamed chicken or eating it every day. But I thought if I did, it would be the answer to all my problems. I'd be healthier, and I'd also capture whatever mojo Stephen absorbed from those strips of protein each day. 

Steamed chicken held the promise of a new life. 

Like I said, I didn't start a daily regimen of steamed chicken. In fact, my hot dog intake has increased, and there's a freezer full of frozen pizza I need to address. 

To be honest, I think I'm afraid to start a steamed chicken journey. I'm not sure if I'm ready to give up the simple life I have. Becoming a creative powerhouse sounds a little exhausting, and I'm just starting to adjust to the slower rhythm of retirement. 

Introducing this kind of change seems a little reckless. I'm not saying I won't be eating steamed chicken at all. In fact, Deb and I had baked chicken for dinner this evening. I have to admit, after eating it, I felt a small spark of change creeping into my body and I'm convinced that if I have the same meal tomorrow, my "Colbert Ascension" will take off like an uncontrolled rocket. 

Scary stuff. I'm guessing the only way to pump the brakes is a Quarter Pounder and that's not a problem at all. 

The "R" Word

It doesn't feel like I'm retired. It feels like I'm committing wage theft even though I no longer get any money from anyone. 100% expense, zero income—and I feel guilty about it. So weird. 

This is the beginning of week three, and I still have the "Sunday Blues" thinking about going back to work today, even though... I'm not going back to work. 

I'm not going to try to figure it out. People are telling me that I'll adjust. I don't know what that adjustment will be like. Will I become carefree Greg, who frolicks with a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon in the park across the street? Will I begin skipping up and down the sidewalk singing 80's pop lyrics and making finger guns at everyone I pass? 

There seems to be an expectation (both external and internal) that Debbie and I should mark the occasion with a big trip or start building a boat in our basement. So far, we haven't done anything like that. We've just been doing our normal stuff and noticing out loud to one another how things were different just two weeks ago. 

Things are different with new patterns of behavior emerging. I'm also being reassured that labeling activities as "unproductive" isn't accurate. Although I'm not sure how a nap is productive. But I did finish a book this weekend. Not exactly productive either, but it's something new I'd like to sustain. 

I've also noticed that my attitude of gratitude has bloomed. I am spending time thinking about the people and things that bring me joy. It's an exercise that comes easily and feels like taking a deep breath in a cool breeze. Ugh... sorry about that line. Cheesy. Although I guess I can use retirement as an excuse to be self-indulgent. That means you may have to endure some extra cheese in this space now and then. 

I'd better not overdo things for this first post in a new age, so I'll stop here. Plus, I have some shopping to do: