Happiness is health, a short memory and a cold drink

Stress affects short-term memory.

I can’t find easy Google proof of it, but I know it does.

Undergo a stressful event, and poof! You can’t find your car keys.

Yesterday, I encountered a woman I’ve met before at a meeting and had a 10-minute conversation with her. I glanced at her name tag, committing her name to memory because I wanted to make a note to follow-up with her in June. When I got home, I found her name on my to-do list: Apparently, I had already made one note to follow-up with her when I had a phone conversation with her a few weeks ago.

Obviously, she remembered me and our conversation when she engaged me yesterday, but I didn’t remember her. Who knows what idiocy poured out of my mouth? How I remembered her name two hours later, I don’t know.

Then at lunch with someone else, I failed to secure the cover on my tea and dumped it all over the table.

Graceful.

This week has been pressure-packed, perhaps the most stressful I’ve had in two years. At dinner last night, I thought, “Wow, I could really use a drink.” While that might be common for some people, that’s not normal for me. Normal for me when I’m thinking about booze is to think about food-drink pairings: “Should I have Sauvignon Blanc and salmon or a beer and a burger?”

I had two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. And squash ravioli with sage butter.

It was delicious. But drinking probably isn’t going to improve my memory.

So I’m feeling generally stressed out and stupid and clumsy to boot, and I’m having lunch with yet another new acquaintance today.

Somehow, through the haze, I remember the name of a software program she mentioned and the name of someone she’d made an album for, and she remarked — not once, but twice — on my good memory.

I leaned over to her and touched her arm.

“Omigosh, you have no idea what that means to me today. I have had the most stressful week, and I thought I was losing my mind. Thank you.”

Ah, a moment of lucidity. And I was gracious, too.

Albert Schweitzer once said, “Happiness is good health and a bad memory.” He failed to mention the role of a good glass of vino.

Maybe he preferred beer.

There’s an app for Sleeping Beauty

“Get enough sleep.”

That bit of advice was among a dozen tidbits I picked up from speakers at two networking meetings I attended the past two days. It’s that time of year, you know, when all the “be healthier in 2012″ speakers get booked.

I am easily among the 80% of Americans who get enough sleep every night. I love to sleep (and I sleep in a great bed) so I have no problem prioritizing sleep over, say, housework. And I don’t commute so most mornings, I don’t use an alarm clock.

So while I didn’t resolve to sleep more in 2012, I did resolve to “embrace technology,” and I found the Sleep Cycle app while trolling for something new to try. It’s so cool, and it addresses a pressing need for people who don’t sleep well. If you have an iPhone, you must try it.

Search “Sleep Cycle” at the App Store. Download it for 99 cents. Read the instructions; it’s not complicated to use (believe it when you’re told to plug in your iPhone at night).

The app uses the iPhone’s accelerometer to measure how much you move during sleep which theoretically shows when you’re awake and when you’re in deep sleep (you move  less when you’re in deep sleep).

You can set your alarm, and the app will determine — within a half hour — the best time to wake you so you aren’t roused during a deep sleep cycle. But that’s not the coolest part. The coolest part is you get a graph at the end of the night showing when you were in deep sleep.

This was my sleep graph from last night. Over time, it’ll show an average of how many hours of sleep I get a night. If you’re the competitive sort, it might inspire you to go to bed a few minutes earlier to improve your sleep time. Which, if you believe the experts, will improve your health.

Here’s to your health!

This resolution is a stretch

No round of New Year’s resolutions is complete without an intention to lose weight or exercise more, right?

Isn’t that what everyone resolves on Jan. 1? It would seem so by the increase in volume at the local Snap Fitness.

I gained three pounds (which might be accounted for by an overly salty Chinese take-out meal or a big bowl of pasta for dinner) and I covered 1,005 miles in 2011, so I’m not too keen on losing weight or exercising more (how do I know I went 1,005.62 miles in 2011? Attribute that to a Garmin accurate to a hundredth of a mile and an obsessive streak of recording it; I just love my runner’s journal).

OK, enough with the obsessive detail, Minnesota Transplant. Sheesh.

I’m not resolving to exercise more, but I do, however, resolve to exercise differently:

I hereby resolve to stretch after every run.

My sciatica is acting up (do I sound like an old man?) and I think it may have something to do with the fact that my hamstrings are tighter than a 20-year-old’s creamy skin (oh, when you’re 20, you have no idea your skin is in the best condition it’ll ever be). And those hamstrings may be tight because, oh, I never stretch.

I used to do yoga regularly, and I’m thinking I could use a few more up dogs in my routine.

And so, in addition to making a comfy nest and embracing technology, I resolve to stretch.

Oh, and one more thing. If you’re into my annual new year’s resolutions, check it out here.

Tomorrow, we’ll wax nostalgic for the old year passed.

As close to magic disappearing cream as you can buy

The skin around my 40something eyes needs help, and I’ve found it in L’BRI Smooth ‘n’ Firm Eye Repair Gel.

If you haven’t heard of L’BRI, get thee to the website. It’s a direct selling company based in Mukwonago, Wis. I had the opportunity to meet and mingle with the founders while I was unemployed. I didn’t get a job, but I got introduced to this amazing eye gel. The skin care line is based on aloe vera, and like many direct sales products, it’s got a good story and great quality.

But the eye gel is magic. It doesn’t just really work, but it really works great. It’s this green, cooling gel that sinks in instantly and seems to work all day.

I’ve still got crinkles around my eyes, but they’re no longer harsh and dry. I’d need a surgeon to remove them completely, and then I’d look like Joan Rivers. So I’ll keep the “character” lines, but I’ll just downplay them.

 

Want to feel younger? Then start acting younger

Attitude is everything when it comes to aging gracefully.

If you think you’re young, you act younger. Expectation, not biology, leads many elderly people to set physical limits on themselves, Harvard University psychologist Ellen Langer was quoted as concluding in a story in Sunday’s Chicago Tribune, “The key to staying healthy and living longer is deciding you’re not old and decrepit.”

Men and women older than 50 with more positive self-perceptions of aging lived 7.6 years longer compared to those with negative perception, according to one study.

I'm not wearing shoes like this ...

After a recent post about my aching feet, a prosthetic-making friend whom I admire for his blend of science and art suggested I try orthotic supports. Um, as much as I appreciate his good intentions, no. No offense intended to old ladies, but I’m not going to wear orthotic shoes — or give in to menopausal insomnia or go gray — one second sooner than I have to, and it’ll probably be about a decade after I ought to.

... as long as I can pull off shoes like this.

In fact, age identity researcher Markus Schafer found this magic number: If you feel 12 years younger than you are, you do better at tasks of memorization and other mental tasks.

Since I turn 45 next month, that means my age identity ought to be 33.

That’s a mid-life crisis I can live with.

When the young die, it’s not good

You know the joke,”Every day’s a good day when I don’t find my name in the obituaries!”

This is a joke made by a person old enough to find his name in the obituary section.

I am not yet ready to be that person making that tired joke!

To my surprise and utter dismay, three former co-workers have died in the past four years. The most recent one was 56. The one in June was only 43. The one who died in 2008 was only 42.

It is should not be usual that a person dies in their 40s or 50s, but even if it’s atypical, they do. Apple co-founder Steve Jobs died yesterday at 56, like that former colleague who died unexpectedly this week. Fifty-six! When Jobs began fighting pancreatic cancer seven years ago, he should have had half a life ahead of him. He didn’t.

Jobs was obviously a brilliant visionary, and I stand with the world in missing him, but I didn’t work with him. I didn’t know him. I didn’t exchange pleasantries with him at the coffee machine. I didn’t see him get testy about a particularly frustrating fellow co-worker. I didn’t see him make personal sacrifices to better our shared professional experience.

While it may be unfair that Steve Jobs isn’t around to dream up new innovations, it is unfair when anyone dies prematurely. And dying in your 40s or 50s is undeniably premature. Rest in peace, Laurie and Jennifer and Deb, my colleagues.

As for the obituaries, I will resist acquiring an obsession with them. It is said that to die is the true meaning of life, so I will not deny death. But even though nothing is certain but death and taxes, I refuse to view death as commonplace. I want to maintain my sense of astonishment and therefore my heartache at the passing of unique individuals.

Mind over matter is what matters in the gym

I could use a little Hanz and Franz about now: “We just want to pump [clap] you up!”

I’m adding weight training to my exercise regime. My excitement about this does not approach the level of Hanz and Franz.

After I wrote “Quiet time on the running trail” a few weeks back and got a number of comments thanks to being Freshly Pressed, I was a little bit surprised about the number of folks who admired my dedication but admitted they never exercise.

As someone who walks or runs 20 miles a week, every week, that admission ranks right up there with “I don’t brush my teeth.” As is obvious by people-watching at the local Wal-Mart, I know many people don’t exercise, but gosh, your body is designed to move — is immobility how you really want it? Some commenters expressed aspirations to exercise, but some of them seemed perfectly content with a life of idle repose.

Then I heard a National Public Radio report on senior citizens being disappointed about their golden years that said one-third of seniors exercise less in retirement than they did while working. Well, on the bright side, two-thirds are exercising more, but still, did you really retire so you could spend more time watching the Game Show Network? That’s sad.

Admitting that I’m generally biased in favor of exercising regularly, I’m still irrationally dreading weight training two or three times a week at the local fitness center.

I just hate lifting weights.

It’s hard.

It’s boring.

As an ectomorph, the results are generally invisible.

Humph. I suppose this is exactly the way sedentary people feel about running.

How to avoid hypocrisy? I am engaging my logical mind to overcome my foot-dragging emotions: A stronger core will make me a better runner. Stronger triceps will reduce comparisons of my arms to a turkey’s neck. Stronger shoulders will balance out my perimenopausal hips. I’ll start small and commit to only twice a week. I’ll reward myself by soaking in the hot tub.

I share this, not to annoy the sedentary (hey, it’s your body, and I subscribe to a live-and-let-live philosophy, so have at it), but rather to inspire those of you who think you might like to step it up in the exercise department. Use your head, and maybe your body will follow.

The promise of notebook paper

The girl, about 12, was walking down the street in her summer shorts and sandals hugging a thin stack of notebooks to her chest.

I crossed her path on my way to the bank this morning. School’s out around here, so I know she wasn’t headed to school. I wondered if she was headed to a friend’s house to play office. Do kids play office anymore? Perhaps the glamour of going off to the office has been erased in the era of cubicles and computers. Even passing notes has lost its lustre in a world of smart phones and Facebook.

I found one of those treasured notes the other day when I was sorting through a file of memorabilia labeled “Stories, poetry to keep.” It was written on a corner of math graph paper in a boy’s messy cursive (oh, heavens, I’m dating myself — “cursive”?), and it says:

It’s 143 characters long so it’s not even a modern tweet! I remember the boy who penned this note — Brent with the 12-letter last name that I can still spell (that’s love!). And I probably kept the note because it said I wasn’t fat and I had beautiful legs, which was poetry to my insecure eighth-grade self. Honestly, it’s poetry to my 44-year-old self, too, so I’m keeping the note another couple of decades; imagine how nice it will make me feel when I’m 75.

OK, nice walk down memory lane.

Back to the girl with the notebooks.

Just seeing her holding notebooks so dearly made me want to line up my telephone on the corner of my desk and sort out my paper clips and rubber bands while I await a request from my boss to take dictation with my No. 2 pencil in my brand new spiral-bound notebook. Buzzt! “I’ll be right there, sir!”

Playing office was fun and even now, I enjoy playing office, a.k.a. working, thought I don’t like dictation and I can do without bosses.

Odds are, she wasn’t off to play office, no matter how romantic that notion might seem to me. Maybe she was headed to the park to write verse for an underground poetry slam organized via text message.

Sigh.

How to stay young: Try a new cake recipe

Note to self: Never quit learning.

I enjoyed the company of my 96-year-old grandmother at today’s Easter celebration. Though she gets help and support from family near and far and no longer drives, she still lives on her own in an apartment. She struggles with poor hearing and failing eyesight, but she remains lucid and aware of current events. For example, after chatting with her today, I can tell you she’s no more impressed with Donald Trump’s presidential aspirations than I am.

Grandma's Easter cake.

As is tradition in our family, guests always offer to bring a dish to a meal, and Grandma agreed to bring a dessert to my parents’ house where 11 of us were celebrating Easter. She wasn’t up to making pie; bear in mind, she makes her crusts and fillings from scratch. So she offered to make a pineapple-strawberry cake, the recipe for which she found in a newspaper, because it looked easier.

Since I hang around with a lot of 40-year-olds who don’t read cookbooks, let alone newspapers, and who think cookies are a lot more work than pan bars, I was impressed a 96-year-old would be willing to try a new recipe like this one for an elegant three-layer cake with pineapple custard frosting and fresh strawberries as garnish.

It was as delicious as it is beautiful. Thanks, Grandma, for the cake. The life lesson was the icing on top.

Another odd choice; perhaps my mind was elsewhere

The irony of aging is that as I have lost collagen, I have gained body confidence.

Though I weighed less in my 20s, I constantly obsessed over my stomach. In my 40s, I know no one is perfect, least of all me, but my muffin top is my own.

I laughed when the Oxford English Dictionary recently recognized muffin top and defined it as ”a protuberance of flesh above the waistband of a tight pair of trousers.” Protuberance is a funny word, don’t you think?

"Two Candles" by Gerhard Richter

When all else fails, laugh.

I thought of these things while browsing at The Art Institute of Chicago yesterday (thanks, Brian and Shelly, for the tickets!). Though my Beloved found it less than satisfying, we spent our time in the modern art section of the museum. I like modern art, not because I am always impressed with the artistry because I am not, but because modern art makes me think.

This 1982 oil painting by German artist Gerhard Richter reminded me of birthdays. Bright and shiny candles, ever multiplying. One turns into two, two into four, four into 44.

While I often complain about aging, I know logically that it’s better than the alternative. So, therefore, I love my muffin top and revel in its ability to maintain my posture and cushion my fully alive and functioning innards.

"Into the World There Came a Soul Called Ida" by Ivan Albright

This oil painting by Ivan Albright reflects this irony. Part of the description at the Art Institute reads, “Her puckered, drooping flesh squeezed into tawdry clothing sizes too small, the doleful woman sits alone at her dressing table, surrounded by a collection of objects as wasted and worn as she is.”

Oh, how sorrowful! But the title of the work evokes the woman’s humanity: “Into the World There Came a Soul Called Ida.”

Ah, so she has a name. And a soul. Ironically, the artist who declared, “The tomorrow of death is what appeals to me,” painted his work using a 19-year-old model who, presumably, had no lack of collagen.

"It's a New Age" by Sue Williams

I preferred this artist’s sarcastic approach to a woman’s aging.

Sue Williams’ acrylic and oil painting, “It’s a New Age,” makes me laugh. Part of the text reads “One thing I’ve gotten with age, is free to choose. I have choices, I choose and trust my instincts. You can’t do anything wrong because – um – you learn from mistakes things. A painful faupaw [sic] could pay off. I chose yellow+ I’m not sorry.”

In another part of the painting, she writes, “I chose fat thighs. Another odd choice. Perhaps my mind was elsewares [sic].”

Yes, obsessing over one’s thighs — or one’s muffin top — is wasted emotional capital, better spent. Better spent painting. Or browsing an art museum.

Or laughing.