A prayer for patience

My hope is that with age comes wisdom and with wisdom comes patience.

And I felt I was on a path to more patience as I stepped out of the race rate and traded wing tips for flip flops with retirement a few years ago.

But I’m back doing battle as a road warrior with a consulting job that will require regular travel between my home in New Hampshire and Columbus, Ohio.

And I realize that my path as a freelance writer and editor to achieving more patience is now a long, long road.

Frankly, I had a lifestyle that lulled me into thinking I was becoming more patient as I age toward 60.

There wasn’t too much that could get me riled up when my commute consists of walking from the kitchen with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee to my music room/office down the hall of the house where my wife and I live.

Now my commute is by car, by plane, by bus, by cab, by whatever means necessary to get me from Point A to Point B to meet my client.

The patience factor was tested on a return trip from Columbus last week.

There was the TSA experience.

Now, I didn’t mind that I had to assume the position to be scanned and felt up. Do whatever you need to do to keep me safe on an airplane that’s 30,000 feet or so above the ground.

No, what tested my patience in the security line was the stupidity of other passengers.

In particular were the two 20-something young ladies who apparently don’t know -- even after hearing it 100 times -- that water is liquid.

The TSA agent was rattling through the items that are allowed and not allowed in carry on bags. You’ve heard the drill: No liquids or gels of more than three ounces.

“And water is liquid, ladies and gentlemen. Water is liquid,” said the agent as part of his audio loop spiel.

So what are these two girls carrying? Right, giant bottles of water that they tried to send through in their buckets with their shoes, cell phones, etc. The process ground to a half as the offending water bottles were recovered and disposed of.

Another road warrior looked at me and said: “I guess we chose the wrong line.”

Then after all that I pick up an text alert on my phone on my way to the gate that my flight had been cancelled.

So I have to leave the gate area and return to the ticket counter to get routed home through a different airline … and assume the position again for the TSA.

Insult to injury. Fortunately, the water as liquid scenario didn’t play out again.

There will be more instances of humanity doing its best to tick me off. And occasionally it will succeed.

But I’m trying to rise above a response that leads to frustration, annoyance and anger.

My mantra: Patience, patience, patience.

A reunion in the eyes of the beholders

People, like works of art, are in the eyes of the beholders.

Sometimes we see in people who we perceive them to be. Or we see in people who they truly are.

At my 40th high school reunion over the weekend -- the Class of ‘71 from Oswego Catholic High School in Oswego, N.Y., -- and here’s what we saw in each other.

Sure, there were a few extra pounds here and there, a few lines and wrinkles, and a little less hair among the men.

There was a new hip here, a couple of knee replacement there. Bad backs bothered a few. Recovering from open heart surgery was the order of the day for one.

There was talk of children in college, of grown children, of grandchildren and the empty nest.

There was talk of retirement -- of being retired or looking forward to it in the near future. There was talk of how to be retired, whether to work, whether to just sail.

Yes, the Class of 1971 is approaching the age of 60 with all that it brings -- emotionally, socially and physically.

But if you really want to get a sense of a group of Baby Boomers on the doorstep of 60, look into their eyes.

It’s there you see beyond the effects of age.

It’s there you see the classmate who sat in front of you in homeroom for four years. (It was a Catholic school, after all, so all seating was alphabetical.)

You don’t see a guy pushing 60, you see a guy who’s still 18.

You don’t see a woman with grown children, you see the girl you took to prom.

You see the third baseman for the baseball team. You see the singer with the beautiful voice in Tri-M. You see the student council president.

The eyes tell you that they’re still as vibrant and fun and interesting as they were when they were 18.

They tell you that their lives in their late 50s holds as much promise as they did when they were picking up their diplomas at graduation.

They, like works of art, are in many respects still works in progress.

True, those eyes might not have the 20/20 vision they once had, and they were certainly a little bloodshot after two nights of partying into the wee hours.

But we saw each other as clearly as ever -- still 18, still forever young.

Long may we all run.

Finding comfort in food

That we find comfort in food is not really headline news. The term “comfort food” has been around forever.

But new research cited in a USA Today article suggests that the fatty acids usually found in some comfort food actually make us feel less sad or anxious about things.

It’s not just an emotional adjustment from comfort food, there’s a chemical reaction between what’s in the food and what’s happening in the brain.

You’d think that half a life worth of experience would immune us Baby Boomers from the kind of situations that make us seek out comfort food.

We’re certainly wiser with age, even -- with luck -- a little smarter.

We’ve seen a lot, experienced a lot, can cope with a lot.

Yet, we stress.

We stress about work, about whether we can retire in comfort, about whether we’re fulfilled in retirement.

We may be empty-nesters but we still stress about our children.

We want our lives as melodies with sweet hooks of harmony. Sometimes what we get is static, irritating static, and we need ways to quiet the noise.

Not too long ago, I felt the physical need for fat, fat and more fat.

I don’t remember being anxious about any one thing, nor sad or depressed. I just knew I needed comfort food, which I equate sometimes with junk food.

I chose a lunch of an extra large Italian sub sandwich with all kinds of fatty, salty cold cuts, along with a bag of chips.

This kind of lunch is completely contrary to my current efforts to watch what I eat and exercise regularly to keep my weight -- and therefore my blood pressure and cholesterol -- in control.

Yet there I was: Happy -- physically and emotionally happy -- as I gobbled this high-calorie, high-fat, high sodium meal.

We have to keep our stressors, our anxieties in control. Exercise is good. So is sex.

And so is comfort food. I love food; it’s one reason I created Eats@Home for home cooked recipes.

But too much comfort food -- as in too much of a good thing -- certainly isn’t good for our long-term health. A high fat diet is averse to everything we’re told about a healthy lifestyle.

Which begs the question: What’s left? I guess we could drink.