Feel Free To Finally Call Me Bigfeet

It happened this week. My feet got older and bigger.  I went to my favorite local running shoe store (still love Linda, George and all the gang at Tri Bike Run, even after this), and found out that there’s no way around it. I am now a double-digit shoe size.

Turns out this is notsneak unusual: our feet gain as much as a size every decade after age 40. The tendons and ligaments lose elasticity,  lowering the arches and flattening the feet. For the record, I’ve always had flat feet, so how much lower can they possibly go? Am I looking at the possibility of rolling along on concave arches? And if I live to 100, I would be a size 14 foot. That’s NBA player territory, house-building material, floorboards for the Ark. How do I stop this? Do I sit down for the rest of my life, risking a heart attack and growing to the size of an office building, but preventing further foot growth? Do I engage in the ancient Chinese ritual of foot binding, an excruciatingly painful practice involving the breaking of toes and wrapping them to create the small feet deemed desirable and beautiful? No option is a good one, but the idea of showing up at a race among all those prettily shod feminine feet, clad in their racing flats of fluorescent pink, yellow, green, orange, white and lavender makes a person want to start way in the back of the pack and stay there.

Getting older is inevitable, but I hoped I would outrun the signs of aging for awhile. Not this one. So if anyone doubts the existence of Bigfeet, they need only catch a glimpse of my closet, where my size 10 Brooks reside. Unless of course, I am out running. Then just listen for the pitter-patter of some not-so-tiny feet behind you.


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Filed under athletic competition, consumer products, Cycling, Exercise, Running, Triathlons

My Holiday Story (And I’m Sticking To it)

Thanks to my friends Gayle and Paul, I almost got arrested yesterday. Knowing their collective sense of humor, they will probably find this story funny.

I stopped by the post office to drop off a holiday card for these dear friends, and as I was in a hurry, I drove up to the curbside box, a commodious double-wide thing with enough room inside for a football team. Failing to actually look, I attempted to gently place my little card in the slot , and the mailbox upchucked cards all over my car.  Turns out the box was overloaded (probably by some eggnog-addled snowbird who shoved packages down its slot and jammed it), so my one pathetic excuse for a greeting card resulted in a puking postal. I got out of my car (at that point, there was no one pulled up behind me) and picked up the cards, intending to put them back into the impossibly stuffed slot. Fortunately, a nice postal


Yup, my box runneth over, too.

worker came out just in time to empty the box.

Of course, as I am bent over, hands full of other peoples’ mail, who pulls up but a local cop. At that moment, of course it looks like I am committing a federal offense. Call it luck or a lack of desire on his part, but I was spared a set of nice shiny handcuffs, a ride in that tricked-out ridiculous police SUV (why our town cops have them is a puzzle; we live in a village, people!) and worst of all, explaining to my husband how his wife is in jail and he would have to fix his own dinner for one night.

So, if you have a good holiday story, please post, share, tag and laugh about it. We could all us it. And stay safe out there.

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Filed under Current news, Holiday, humor

Weed Whacking In Winter

Those of your staring out your window at bare trees, a brown lawn and leaden sky…don’t read any further. The rest of you may carry on.

I got the bug to pull weeds today, after Small Business Saturday shopping ’til I dropped. But I wasn’t pulling just any weeds. It’s a three-foot by six-foot patch of oyster plant, an invasive species that’s still used as ornamental ground cover here, because it thrives where other plants don’t,


Wishful thinking.

but has a tendency to grow Teflon©-tough roots and take out anything living in its path. This plant is considered a pest in Australia, and I wish we felt the same about it here. You pull out one plant, and find roots for a dozen more. I worked for an hour and removed about a third of the spread, filling three large trash bags. I will owe The Husband at least another box of those. Filling them was the easy part; I will pay for my foolishness next week, when I have to drag them to the end of the driveway for pickup.

Why was I removing this plant pest, when leaving it would be easier? I planted tomatoes (twice, since heavy rain pounded my first plant into sad submission), Brussels sprouts and broccoli. They are thriving, so I figure I have another green thumb to spare.   Not sure what will go there, since it is only partial sun and backs up to the fence line. My state planting guide lists a lot of possibilities, but it always boils down to what we’re willing to eat and how we protect the crop from critters. A trip to the garden center or farmer’s market plant dude is in my future, though living off our land certainly isn’t. What we grow would not feed us for two days, never mind a whole season. Round 2 of the whack-a-weed game is tomorrow. Stay tuned.

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Filed under cooking, food, gardening

The (Em)power(ment) of tools


I prevail over the power tools.

I fixed the weed whacker yesterday. I did break it first, so I guess I deserved to figure out how to repair it.

But that’s not the point. I was determined not to come inside for dinner until I had that thing running and eating weeds again. I had to reverse that position temporarily and go to a YouTube video, however. I needed directions for fixing the thing, since none were available on the whacker or in our file. The Husband is usually good about keeping these papers, but somehow, this one never made it to its proper place among the thousands of pieces of paper we have for things we no longer own.

I found a video of an old guy showing his daughter how to fix the threading mechanism on the head. I was trying so hard to figure it out myself, I was losing time and daylight. Watch video, go outside, pick up whacker, press head tabs and off came the plastic casing. Re-thread, replace and mow down those pesky weeds along the fence line.

I understand why power tools mean so much to the (mostly) men who buy them, hang them in the garage or workshop and show the stink eye to anyone who dares touch them. It’s not really about the actual work you do with them. It’s mastering the art of having them and the ability to fix things and make life better, nicer, cleaner and more efficient. I feel the same way about the baking tools and cooking equipment in my kitchen and pantry. I don’t use much of it often, but woe to anyone daring to suggest I could donate or sell any of it. It’s not about actual use; it’s about bragging rights when you have three pasta machines, twelve professional knives (one of them custom), six cutting boards, five cooling racks and an ungodly number of baking pans and sheets. Plus a chinois, mandoline, marble tempering slab, two grinders and three food processors. That’s not overkill, that’s culinary empowerment.

I hoped to continue my power tool prowess today, but at the moment, it’s raining out there. I’ll head to the kitchen to make dinner – stir fry chicken with vegetable and rice (made in a rice cooker…what else?)

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Filed under consumer products, cooking, home improvement, technology

Hair, Hair Everywhere It’s Not Wanted

I was commiserating with a fellow swimmer this morning, discussing the ravages of old age. The aches and pains needing ice and/or heat, odd bumps, strange bruises and hurts that take longer to heal than they used to. The need for a day off from training, longer warm ups and shorter races. Mind you, I am looking at age 60 and my fellow swimmer is in his mid-seventies. So he gets the old age thing better than I do, even though he looks  good and competes like nobody’s business. And he reminded me that I was just a young ‘un with a long way to go.

I’d like to add another freak factor to this aging conundrum. It’s hair. Specifically, hair in the wrong places. My eyebrows have thinned, and I am finding those lost hairs in my nose. My face needs constant attention to main


Hair, hair out to there.

tain a baby-smooth countenance. I gave up on my arms, since waxing thinned the skin to the point of bruising when I touched a protruding shelf or open drawer. If you want to know about my legs and beyond…well, no, you really don’t. Just know that the cost of personal body maintenance exceeds the cost of keeping my car on the road.

I blame this hairy situation on genetics. If there’s one thing my family counts on, it’s good hair, though like most people, we prefer it on our heads. My family tree is covered with mostly thick, curly, dark, wavy hair, though a few straight-haired people show up on a branch now and then. We are the kind of people who keep spas, salons and dermatologists happy and wealthy as they fight and defeat our unwanted follicles.

Getting older could be much worse. I could be deceased and miss the process completely. Or disabled by pain and physical immobility, and go through it minus the joys. And speaking of joys, I need to check on my supply of shampoo and conditioner. If I’m going to have hair, it has to be clean.

An update on my quest for 50 Races In 50 States: Louisiana is completed. I am planning to run in four states next year: Colorado, New York, Maryland and Pennsylvania.


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Filed under Aging, family, health and beauty, Relationships, shampoo

Love, Peanut Butter, Bucket List

The competitive swimming list is complete. I entered and swam the 400 IM at my most recent swim meet, which means I’ve done all the events from the 25s to the mile in yards, long or short course meters, and many of them I’ve done at all three distances. I’ve done the 5K swim (my 10K attempt ended with Hurricane Irma’s arrival). That does not mean I’m done swimming, only that I need a new


Make new friends, see new places, one state at a time.


I’ve decided to start the “Old Is A Four-Letter Word” Tour. No, I’m not heading out as a Rolling Stones groupie. My goal is to race once in all 50 states. The type of race – a 5K, 10K, swim meet, bike event or triathlon – is immaterial. I have to pick one and do it once in every state. Aside from Florida, I have Massachusetts and Delaware done. Next up is Louisiana, piggybacked onto a car club event. Next year: Colorado (the Cherry Creek Sneak in mid-April looks like fun) and the Maryland/D.C. area (too many to count, but the Fort McHenry Tunnel Run is interesting). I have family in both places, so there’s my other excuse to go.

Why bother to do this? Why train, eat right and deal with travel and packing and all the details? The adult in me knows better, but the kid in me wants something more. Because keeping the body good and the brain active requires regular workouts. I’ve said this before: I don’t want to be the old rocking-chair type, waiting for Death to stop by and pick me up for that final ride to whatever is waiting after this life ends. If I’m going (and at this stage, I am more than halfway there), then I’ll meet Fate head-on, no cane, walker or wheelchair at hand. I’d rather go out on my bike, or with my running shoes tied tight, than age away slowly.

In case you’re wondering, my doctor has no idea about my new plans. I see him before the end of the year, and I’ll try to explain it to him. Not planning on asking his permission. Just planning to let him know what I’ve decided. It’s an ambitious plan for an (almost) 60-year-old. And don’t ask me how I’ll manage Alaska and Hawaii yet.  For now, I’m thinking of stocking up on peanut butter and getting a T-shirt to wear in honor of this quest. Printed on it: “I’m running through 50 states. This might take a while.”

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Filed under Aging, athletic competition, Exercise, Running, Swimming, Triathlons, vacation

A better idea for Veteran’s Day

Amidst the backlash, bombast and brouhaha that’s brewing in this country and the NFL regarding standing versus kneeling during the national anthem,  there is yet one more topic of discussion: the idea of a viewer afootvallnd attendance boycott over the upcoming Veteran’s Day weekend. The boycott organizers urge fans not to attend, watch, listen or stream games, not to purchase gear or interact with the National Football League in any way on Sunday, November 12. The boycott page has attracted some interest from a few thousand people and a lot of Likes. Then again, anything that screams “I’m a patriot!” (the American revolutionary kind, as opposed to the New England football team mascot) is going to get attention.

Is this the right kind of reaction? Is kneeling for the national anthem the right kind of reaction? Does either one accomplish a real purpose? In the sense that we can and we do have the opportunity to express our beliefs freely here, there is a purpose. In the sense that we continue all the conversations when our president prefers it to be only one-sided, shutting out any dissent or alternative discourse, the is a purpose. At some point, when attention to this situation wanes and other news relegates it to background noise, we’ll stop giving it so much press and cease caring about it more than nuclear proliferation, starvation, mass shootings and the multiple natural disasters of the last few weeks.

But here’s a better idea. Ask a veteran what they think about this. If you don’t know one, go to your local VA hospital, nursing home, halfway house or senior center. Plenty of vets in these places. Plenty of televisions, too. Offer to sit with a vet on November 12, and listen to their stories and sorrows. Maybe those old soldiers and sailors, those Marines and pilots and gunners can teach you something.  Bring some snacks and a little patience. These folks are slowed by time but worthy of yours. And they just may decide that the whole boycott idea is hooey, because they earned respect and honor without anyone standing up for them before now.

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Filed under Aging, Current news, football, Holiday, National Football League, television, Veteran's Day