When is it okay to lie?

This is one of those questions designed to reveal someone’s personality and values. A common answer is: “To spare someone’s feelings.”

My answer is the not so noble: when it pertains to weight.

Hubby and I have always had a silly cat/mouse-type game about the subject. Years ago when we were in Texas, I was pulled over for speeding (allegedly). The police officer held his flashlight on my driver’s license and asked, “How much do you weigh?” Which barbarically enough was listed on our Florida driver’s licenses back in the 90s.

“One thirty,” I said.

“Well,” hubby said as we drove away. “Now I know!”

“I didn’t tell him how much I weigh,” I said. “I told him what it says on my driver’s license.”

I have never told the truth about my weight, and I don’t intend to start now. There, I said it.

While out to dinner with friends recently, one of them (a man, of course), asked everyone “How much more do you weigh now than you did in high school?”

I blurted out: twelve pounds.

Now, in hindsight (and if I had been drinking), I would answer in an entirely different manner.

On the way home, hubby said, “You were pretty quick to answer that weight question.”

“Well, you know I didn’t tell the truth, right?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

I do feel a little better knowing that most people lie about their weight (https://www.livescience.com/18206-people-lie-weight-surveys.html).

But, I may take it a bit far.

When I was being prepped for my first colonoscopy, the anesthesiologist told me it was Propofol that he was giving me. I immediately thought of Michael Jackson and asked, “How do you know how much to give me?”

“We go by your weight,” he said.

“Nobody weighed me today.”

“We get it from the forms you filled out,” he said.

Uh oh.

When I read about the last 100km of the Camino’s Portuguese Way I noted the difficulty level was considered easy. I’m not really sure what scale was used to determine this, but it’s definitely not the same used for, say, cruise excursions where easy means you have to have a pulse.

Admittedly I did not train for hills, and living in Florida for the past 45 years where the only “hill” is a maybe a curb, left me unprepared. At one point toward the end of the day’s walk we turned a corner and were faced with a big hill. I must confess I literally said, “No f’ing way!” (Only I didn’t say f’ing.) I have to hand it to my fellow pilgrims though as one simply said, “We got this,” and started up that hill.

Needless to say, I found the experience challenging, but I’m glad I did it and I’m kind of proud too.

The Camino means different things to different people. For some, it’s a traditional religious pilgrimage, while for others it’s a spiritual journey or a “walking cure” that offers a holistic and therapeutic experience.

Noting the many memorials along the way, it’s obvious the Camino is also a healing from life events. It offers a way to process grief, loss, or major life transitions. Walking becomes a form of moving meditation that provides the space and time needed to heal.

Unplugging from modern life cannot be understated. It was wonderful to not hear or see any news for eight days while also knowing that for over a millennium, pilgrims have walked the same routes, creating a profound sense of connection to history.

For me, the reason for doing the Camino was very simple. I believe that when God puts something in your heart, you do it.

Thanks for reading.

Buen Camino.

If I had to pick a favorite part of my Camino experience, it would be the bagpipers (Doedelzak in German) who appear out of nowhere in the forest. You would hear this charming sound long before you came across the wonderful sight. Also, the many pop up “cafes” along the way just when you needed it. And when I say café, I use the word loosely. These were sometimes merely a trailer in the forest that some enterprising Spaniard turned into a haven for pilgrims to sit for as long as they wanted or needed – in the sun or the shade – and rest, have a refreshment, get a stamp, and connect with others.

The stamps were also a favorite of mine. To earn your Compostela (certificate) at the end of your Camino you must have at least two stamps from each city along the way. This has turned into a fun Easter-egg-hunt-type experience for pilgrims and a great tool for business folks. One of my first stamps was a “betty boop” type that looked like we may have gotten it at a strip joint (we got it at a bar). Everyone asked where we got it, and someone even took a picture of it.

The landscape and the animals were, of course, a highlight. I saw only two stray dogs, both of which were so healthy looking and friendly that I kept searching for the owner. Thankfully, the cats all seemed happy and well cared for too, and there was plenty of cat siesta-ing everywhere!

Hardly a favorite was that I lost no weight. Don’t get me wrong that wasn’t the purpose of the trip, but come on! Two hundred thousand steps and not even a pound?! It may have been the 3-4 cappuccinos per day, which were mostly made with creamy whole milk. And perhaps all the bread… Alright, fair enough.

Next up: Finale

I was admittedly a little nervous about my journey to Spain for what I dubbed the “Baby Camino.” (And, I had the feeling everyone else was a lot nervous.)

If you have never heard of the Camino, I ask that you google Camino de Santiago. It’s a famous pilgrimage that folks have been doing for over a millennium. I chose the simplest version of it – the last one hundred kilometers.

Two months before I left, with all my supplies ready, and many miles of training under my belt, I would mention the Camino to hubby, and he would inevitably say, “You’re serious about this?”

I wasn’t offended. I’m typically not very gung-ho about travel and haven’t ventured out alone in years. What’s more, the last time we traveled to Europe, I forgot to leave airplane mode on. We are still trying to figure out how we avoided thousands of dollars in cell phone fees.

During a visit last year, hubby’s cousin from Germany mentioned that his wife wanted to do the Camino. Hubby’s eyes immediately met mine because he knew this was something I’d been talking about for years. (And he has said more than once that he isn’t interested in going on vacation to walk. I get it. Not many are.)

I’m not really certain what put the Camino in my heart, but last December the dream was hatched to meet my two fellow pilgrims from Germany in Vigo, Spain at the end of September 2025, to walk to Santiago de Compostela.

To be continued…

Recently I was having Sunday brunch with family at a popular little place in the more upscale part of our county.

I just happened to be looking out the window at the tables outside, two of which were recently vacated, but not cleared. This is the type of place where they give you the pot when you order coffee.

The place was pretty crowded and there were many people milling around out there waiting for a table. I watched as a guy walked up to the table, poured coffee into one of the used cups and sat down to drink it. He moved to the other table still drinking his coffee and then he got up, dropped off the coffee cup and picked up a half eaten sandwich.

When I shared what I was witnessing, my brother told a story of how back in school he once saw a kid take food that was left on top of the trash in the lunchroom. It made me glad it was my sensitive brother that witnessed this and not another kid who may have ridiculed him. My brother said it made him think that although we had some pretty “lean” years growing up, we never went hungry. Oh, there were days when a Devil Dog was all there was for dinner, but we always try to see the humorous side when talking about those years. That said, I’d pretty much kill to be that weight and be able to eat Devil Dogs for dinner now.

At the risk of stereotyping, the guy in the restaurant did not look particularly homeless. Maybe he had mental problems, or an addiction, or maybe he was just hungry, but I’m still thinking about him and feeling grateful for how our lives turned out.

When the doorbell rings in the middle of the day, I can be fairly certain it’s a neighbor needing assistance with something – often technology based. I really don’t mind this as I read that a fulfilling retirement should consist of a third of your time spent with family, a third spent on community, and a third spent on yourself. I chalk the neighbors up to community.

Often, it’s cell phone related (“I usually mash this button, but that’s not working”); or help needed with something like a digital frame (“My grandchild sent this and I’m not sure what the heck I’m supposed to do with it”); or perhaps it’s the always popular, “I may have ordered something on the phone/computer by accident” situation.

I’ve even encountered the unbelievable, “Can you help me? I think I threw out my savings bonds.” (Spoiler Alert: She did, and there’s actually a U.S. Treasury Department process for it.)

Recently though, the request was for help with for an upcoming cruise. It was too early to check in so I told them I would try in a day or two and get back to them.

After checking them in as much as I could I headed to their house to get the rest of their information. Their air conditioning had gone out overnight, so they were in a little bit of a tizzy. As I stood in their hot kitchen listening to them yell at one another about where the (expired) passports were, and how they had trouble with the name on the birth certificate last time, and just about everything else one can imagine, I ran out the door, saying, “No worries, I’ll come back.”

A little later the husband brought over the paperwork. On his way out, he said, “I better get back and apologize to my wife for yelling at her.”

“Aww,” I said. “Blame the heat.”

“She’ll say, ‘What was your excuse yesterday?’”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I don’t know what it is anymore,” he said. “She could say hello and it aggravates the hell out of me. The doctor says it’s normal at our age, but if it gets any worse, there’s a pill he can give me.”

Who knew they had a pill for that?

Besides helping our “community,” my secret hope is that all the assistance hubby and I provide is being stockpiled as “goodwill” or “karma” that will come back to us someday. Hopefully, we never need that grouchy pill, but maybe we’ll have kind neighbors that will help us if we do.

It’s unbelievable to me that I’m still talking about a crazy shark tale from fifty years ago, but apparently, Jaws made a big impression on me. Not only was the movie the first drive-in I ever drove to, but the book by Peter Benchley was the one that got me hooked on reading.

It’s also unbelievable for me to think that I literally did not read an entire book until I read Jaws at sixteen years old. I have Dear ole Dad to thank for that enlightenment.

My father was one of the thousands of dads who schlepped out from Long Island into New York City for work in the 1970s. And, like most of them, Dad took the Long Island Railroad (LIRR).

There were many rituals to riding the LIRR. Like, don’t touch the big piece of cardboard shoved between the seats and window in car so and so, as the same group of four uses it every morning when they lay it across their laps (two riding backwards, so they face one other), to play cards. And, when you finish a newspaper or paperback, do feel free to leave it on the seat for a fellow commuter.

This is how I got to read Jaws. Dad picked it up on the LIRR; and, when he was done, he left it lying on a table at home, carrying on the railroad’s pseudo library lending system.

I’m sure it was the intriguing photo on the cover that piqued my unmotivated, teenage interest, as I devoured the book, couldn’t wait to see the movie, and forever after was a voracious reader.

Thanks, Dad!

I am not big on rewatching movies, and I really don’t like sequels (unlike Dad who famously said, “The higher the number, the better the movie.”) So, I have not seen Jaws since that warm June night when I drove a bunch of us in my mother’s station wagon to the local drive-In.

Fortunately, I have a cinephile niece who was willing to join me for the re-release of 1975’s summer blockbuster (and, apparently, the movie that created the word “blockbuster”). It was better than I even remembered, and that opening scene – chillingly and skillfully achieved with no blood, and no shark – is still one of the most vivid movie memories for me and still has me talking about it all these years later.

It was some time in the early 90s while working at the Kennedy Space Center that I heard a bunch of commotion coming out of the engineering office. When I went to see what the excitement was, one of them said, “It’s the World Wide Web!”

Needless to say, I didn’t quite understand the magnitude of this statement, but the irony is not lost on me that although I was part of the generation that was on the forefront of this technology, I sometimes still need help getting on Hulu.

A favorite memory of that era has me as one of the first in our group to use a newfangled gadget called the “Mouse.” Up until then, every single command on every computer we were using required keystrokes to do even the simplest task.

I was asked to teach a visiting scientist from Sweden how to use this new gadget. He and I sat shoulder to shoulder in my tiny cubicle staring at the image on my flickering monitor.

“First, you click here,” I said as I dragged the Mouse across the mouse pad, “And then you click there.”

He put his hand on my arm and looked at me quizzically, saying, “What means click?”

Yet, after taking courses in advanced FORTRAN, COBOL and Assembler — the computer languages that ran those computers — I sometimes still have to enlist the help of a family member to stop our Alexa from flashing yellow.

I really don’t mind being part of the old school generation who just may have forgotten more about computers than most folks will ever know about them.

And, I kind of love the fact that at my recent high school reunion hardly anyone had their nose buried in their cell phone. Everyone was simply enjoying connecting with each other, in person, old school style.

I recently had our pool water tested.

“Your acid level is high,” the lady behind the counter said after running the water through the mad scientist looking contraption they use at the pool place.

“I wouldn’t let anyone swim until you get that under control,” she said.

“I swam this morning,” I told her.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at me with a scrunched up “sucks for you” face.

When I told hubby the story, I said, “So, if I wake up dead tomorrow, you know why.”

No response. He famously doesn’t give much credence to the water testing process of these places.

Later that day, he came out of the bathroom waving a bloody Q-tip.

“Either I have a cut somewhere in my ear, or I’m dying,” he said.

“You can’t be dying,” I said. “I told you I may be waking up dead tomorrow.”

He looked at me with his “I am married to a crazy woman” expression.

“They’ll never know what happened to us,” I said. “It’ll be another Gene Hackman and his wife situation all over again.”

This launched us into a crazy dialog about forensics.

“They’ll figure it out,” he said. “They’ll find the printout from the pool place, and then they’ll see the bloody Q-tip in the trash.”

“Besides,” he said. “Your brother has seen every episode of Forensics Files at least fifty times, this will be a piece of cake.”

“Okay, then,” I said, ironically satisfied.