Born free: Returning my yard to the wild

I’m slowly but surely letting my lawn go back to nature.

Which means, eventually, the yard will have less grass that I have to mow and more nature that I can just sit back and admire.

When I lived in the suburbs, an expansive green, trimmed, weed-free yard was important. It was as much of a symbol of a successful middle-class life as the two cars and the two children. It meant that I had arrived as a grown-up.

Now I’m living in a much-less suburban environment. And I’m even more grown-up to the point where I’ve joined the ranks of the working retired,so my priorities have shifted, and those priorities don’t include worrying about a lawn.

In this more rural life that I live now, I don’t have neighbors who judge how green or trimmed or weed-free my grass might be.

Our property is enveloped by trees, mostly pine, and the accompanying amount of wild shrubs and undergrowth. Within this patch of forest is our house and good-sized lawn.

As Jane and I get older, and as we think about just where and how we want to age out together, we think about changes to the house - how to make it more accommodating as we get older - creating an honest-to-God dining room, for example, to better host big family functions.

And I think about how best to manage what happens outside the house: storm drainage, snowplowing, and caring for a big yard.

It takes me about an hour to so to cut the lawn using a rider mower. It would be a difficult task with a push power mower, an impossible task with a push lawnmower.

Looking down the road of age, I’m thinking I need less lawn, so how best to let Mother Nature reclaim what was hers in the first place?

There is an area within a stand of pines that I’ve stopped mowing. It was difficult enough as it was, with tree roots starting to create a hazard to the mower blades. Now, it’s starting to fill in with leaves, pine needles and scrub growth.

I’m looking at other areas of the lawn that also might be abandoned in the same manner: Don’t worry about the grass, let the leaves, pine needles and scrub growth take over, just like Mother Nature used to do before Man decided that fertilized and watered and green grass was a better idea.

I’m not totally abandoning the idea of lawn. There’s still a piece of my suburban self that likes to look out from the picture window to the lawn and imagine it cut against the various grains in the style of the Fenway Park outfield.

But, as I continue to get older, that notion will be supplanted by the vision of installing artificial turf in the style of the Kraft Stadium football field.

The 60th trip around the sun begins

I completed my 59th trip around the sun on June 19.

That means that I’ve begun my 60th orbit on spaceship earth.

Birthdays are occasions for reflection, and as I approach my 60th birthday in 11 months I’ll do more than my share of reflecting -- looking back at what was, looking forward at what’s ahead.

Much of the current reflection comes from watching my children in their own adult lives.

My son David is getting ready to start a terrific full-time, well-paying job at Columbia University in New York City.

My daughter Elizabeth is getting married in less than two months.

I’m six months into grandfatherhood, my stepdaughter Kelsey having giving birth to Rylin.

How can it be that all this is happening when it wasn’t that long ago, or so it seems, that I was getting my first job, that I was getting married for the first time, that I was having my first child?

I know a second is a second, a day is a day, a week is a week, a month is a month, and a year is a year.

But, as you age and look back, those events in the rear view mirror seem a lot closer than they actually are; those years seem more like seconds.

I’m not melancholy or upset about the lightning progression of years. I’m just in awe that it’s gone by so fast.

Yet, I’m determined to hold the years at arm’s length for as long as my physical strength, mental acuity, and emotional fortitude can last.

My sister Margaret gave me what she called a life-changing book; ”Younger Next Year.”

It was my birthday present from her along with a heart monitor for me to wear while I exercise.

The book promotes the notion that we can, as we age, slow the process of decay by better eating and better exercising. I’ve always been a good at exercising, and the heart monitor is helping me do it better. And I can always be a better eater, less starch, less saturated fat, etc., etc. Easy for me to say after consuming a plate of onion rings after a round of golf yesterday.


It’s quite amusing to see me gear up for a run. There’s the iPod and the earbuds. There’s the heart monitor strapped around my chest, the heart rate sensor on my right wrist along with my Road ID bracelet. There’s the stopwatch on my left wrist. And there’s the water bottle carrier strapped around my waist.

All in the name of better exercising.

All in the name of getting around the sun a 60th time and many more times after that.

All in the name, as my new book suggests, of getting younger next year.

Back to the future: Shaving off ten years

Word is going around these parts about a way to lower your cholesterol, lower your blood pressure, increase circulation and make you feel 10 years younger.

The solution is: Stop watching the Red Sox play baseball.

'New' look

It’s been pretty bad, at least so far, for us citizens of Red Sox Nation.

But, in more practical terms, I’m addressing the cholesterol situation with Pravastatin and the blood pressure situation with Lisinopril.

And, in order to look 10 years younger, I shaved my moustache and beard.

The dual demons of age and vanity have been sitting on my shoulders as we turn the corner toward summer and as I prepare to marry off my daughter Elizabeth at the end of summer.

I celebrate my 59th birthday in June, and I’ll be into my 60th year when I walk Elizabeth down the aisle.

I just don’t want to look like I’m in my 60th year. As I told her, I want to be seen as a younger father of the bride, not an older father of the bride.

'Old' look

It’s not like I’ve had the facial ornamentation for very long.

It started in August 2008 right after my stepdaughter Kelsey married Jeremy.

I was newly retired from a long-time job, and I was looking for new opportunities as a consultant or freelance writer/editor. The beard made me look wise … or at least wiser than I actually am.

Kelsey and Jeremy now have a daughter -- Rylin Anne -- and the salt-’n-pepper moustache and the all-gray beard certainly gave me the look of a grandpa.

But as I creep closer to my daughter’s wedding, I’m thinking a change of scenery is necessary. And it’s all about me and my vanity, how I want to look and feel about myself.

It’s a funny thing about us Baby Boomers: We want the respect that should come with age, but we don’t really want the look of age.

So we boxtox, lipo and color our hair.

But I won’t botox my jowls. I won’t lipo my gut. I won’t color my gray.

I’ll try to eat right. I’ll sweat my butt off at the gym. And I’ll shave off as much of the offending gray as I can.

On Sept. 1, I’ll see if I can make 59 look like the new 39 … okay, okay … maybe 49.

We are what’s on our feet

It’s said we are what we eat.

We are also what we wear on our feet.

I was thinking about this the other day -- why it caught my attention, I have no idea -- and started counting up the shoes, boots, etc. that I wear on a regular and fairly regular basis:

17.

That’s right, 17.

To me, that seems like a lot because I don’t consider myself a shoe person, at least not in the manner of Imelda Marcos, the wife of the former Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos. It was rumored she had up to 3,000 pairs of shoes.

I break my shoes down into three categories: the Everyday shoes, the Athletic Shoes, and the Specialty Shoes.

Now that I am among the legion of Baby Boomers who are retired but still working, they reflect a person who leans more toward the casual and athletic.

That wasn’t the case when I was a full-time professional. That person was definitely more business, reflected in the shined dress shoes of greater formality.

Today’s Everyday shoes are a simple treaded leather lace-up for the fall, winter and early spring. They are replaced by a deck-shoe type slip-on for the late spring, summer and early fall.

It’s on the rare occasion these days that I’ll wear the cordovan or black dress shoes.

Around the house I’ll wear my Adidas flip-flops when it’s warm, my L.L Bean slipper mocs when it’s cold.

The Athletic shoes cover a wide range of activities, and have grown in number now that I have the time to devote to and concentrate on my physical well being.

I have shoes for running, shoes for cycling and shoes for walking. I have booties that I wear to surf when the Atlantic Ocean is too cold for my piggies. I have shoes that I wear to the beach. I have boots for skiing and boots for apres-ski eating and drinking. I have shoes for tennis -- I’d like to think I’ll pick up a racket again, but I probably won’t.

My Speciality shoes also cover a wide-range of activities.

A pair of trail shoes that I bought for hiking are actually used more for mowing the lawn and assorted yard work.

I have fleece-lined boots from Columbia for snowblowing the driveway. And I have steel-toed work boots for any occasion that requires steel-toed work boots. I needed them several years ago for a project I managed; I guess I hope there will be another project like it to manage some day.

In the meantime, it’s the working retired casual look for me on my feet.

The Golden Age of Geezer Groans

I find myself uttering more than the usual number of geezer groans these days.

If you’re an aging Baby Boomer, you know what I’m talking about.

These are the groans when you haul your ass out of bed in the morning, or when you stand up from lounging too long on the couch, or when you just can’t rake another damn pile of lawn clippings.

I hate geezer groans.

I hate that I’m groaning on a geezer level.

As an aging Baby Boomer, I’ve put a few miles on this body and soul.

I’m wiser for the experience and the many miles on the odometer, but I’m also a little worn in the joints, ligaments and muscles, knees, shoulders and hips.

I’ve had a cranky back for a long, long time. So doing any kind of lifting -- shovels of snow, piles of leaves or lawn clippings -- will produce a loud groan after a while. It might be as much a groan of protest as it is a groan of soreness.

Over the past year or so I resolved and succeeded at losing 20 pounds or more after climbing on the scale one day and not liking at all what the scale’s numbers were telling me.

It’s not that I want to roll back the odometer as much as I want to keep the odometer spinning for as long as possible.

I’ve succeeded through diet and exercise to lose the weight. The diet -- the “Flat Belly Diet! For Men” -- doesn’t make me groan. The exercise regimen does.

Here’s what this week’s gym schedule looks like so far:

Monday - 5 mile treadmill run, 48:44.97

Tuesday - TreadClimber, 1:00:00

Wednesday - Group stationary bike exercise class (Spinning, for the unitiated), 1:00:00

Thursday - Lap swim, 30:00

Friday - Xtrainer, 30:00

This followed by equal parts Ibuprofen/Jack Daniels.

The push to keep the excess pounds at bay has its residual effects -- occasional soreness and stiffness … and the groans.

And there are the groans of expectation and anxiety.

You know how it is. You’ve got to do something you don’t want to do. See someone you don’t want to see. Feel something you don’t want to feel.

So you groan.

It’s a way to prep, to steel yourself for the inevitable. The root canal I had this week comes to mind.

Geezer groans are part of the physical and emotional part of growing old.

But here’s the challenge: Don’t grow old.

Let’s age but let’s not get old.

Fat belly to flat belly redux

When last I left my fat belly, I had started a journey of diet and exercise to a flat belly.

The most current tale of the tape shows me at 162 pounds, a loss so far of 23 pounds and close to my goal of 25.

It wasn't that I looked too bad when I started back in March. Being a little round around the middle is what you get in middle age, right? The Baby Boomer boom of the gut, right? No.

At 185 pounds I was overweight, according to the body mass index specs for my height of 5-foot-8.

You're considered overweight if your BMI gets above 25. I was at 28.1. With a BMI of 30 or greater you're considered obese. I didn't like the upward arc I was on. I didn't like the image I had of myself.

I wasn't looking to regain my youth -- that boat sailed long ago. With age, hair turns gray, hair falls out, hair grows in places it doesn't belong. I accept I can't turn back the clock. I wanted to get back on path of better health.

Too many bad things come from being overweight. It's been enough to deal with my inherited cholesterol issues. I didn't need overweight issues -- heart disease, diabetes -- on top of that.

My redirected path started with my purchase in March of the "Flat Belly Diet: For Men."

It made me think differently about eating. It made me think differently about food shopping. It made me think differently about exercise.

My eating and shopping mantra became: Reduced fat, no fat, reduced salt, no salt.

I've become a label reader, something I never was before. I became a calorie counter, something I never was before.

And I became a MUFA eater -- mono-unsaturated fatty acids. Olive oil, nuts, avocados, olives. I boosted my metabolism by eating a little heat (red pepper, jalapenos, hot banana peppers) with a lot of my meals.

Mostly, though, I changed my brain.

I don't think or worry about the things I don't eat or drink. I think about the long-term benefits about the things I don't eat or drink.

I'm not a diet Nazi. I still over-indulge at parties, at family gatherings, at restaurants. But not all the time.

My BMI target of 24.3 (160 pounds) is a goal. After that it'll be a way of life, a fixed number to carry just like my Social Security number or date of birth.

For this Baby Boomer, the issues associated with aging are challenging enough. It's better to confront and deal with some of them while I still have the will and motivation.

Not as distracted as you might think

Statistically speaking, I'm a distracted driver.

In fact, statistically speaking, I'm more distracted behind the wheel by my cell phone than drivers half my age and younger.

I say statistically speaking based on a recent report from the Pew Internet and American Life Project that shows Baby Boomers as a group are distracted drivers because of their cell phone use.

It says: "Fully 61% of adults say they have talked on their cell phones while they were behind the wheel. That is considerably greater than the number of 16- and 17-year-olds (43%) who have talked on their cells while driving."

I can see how this is true. When I walk or run along my usual route, I see a lot of commuter traffic and I'm always amazed at the number of people -- older and younger adults like -- who are talking on the phone. Or they are holding their cell phone and texting with a thumb. And this while they're approaching a traffic light in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I'm surprised there aren't more bumper car accidents than there are.

I'll admit to being distracted on occasion, but it isn't by my cell phone. Primarily, it's the stuff going on in my head as I travel from Point A to Point B.

My biggest distracted offense is forgetting to turn off my turn signal.

Yes, I'm one of those drivers: blithely driving down the road my turn signal indicating a turn to nowhere.

I'm very aware about turning my signal on to make a turn; I'm bad about turning the indicator off after I've made the turn.

The problem is those turns that aren't sharp enough for the indicator to shut off by itself. If I'm merging in or out of traffic, if I'm exiting onto an off ramp, if I'm indicating a turn at a fork in the road, the indicator is likely to stay on.

Just ask my son David. He's the one, if he's in the car, who is always telling me to turn off my turn signal.

I don't know what I'm thinking about that excludes me from turning off the indicator. I can't hear it the tick-tick-tick, which is part of the problem of being distracted. You get so closed into your head that it distracts you from other things going on outside of your head.

I know I'm not alone in distractions that have nothing to do with a cell phone.

I pulled away from the grocery store parking lot the other day to see an older gentleman behind the wheel of his new generation station wagon/SUV mixed breed with the tailgate of his vehicle lifted wide open. I thought he must have a big load in the back to be driving around like that. But no ... there was nothing in the rear of the car to warrant the tailgate being open.

It seems he just forgot about the tailgate and was distracted enough not to realize the road noise or the warning light on his dashboard.

I almost preferred that the guy would have been on the phone.

He and I need a better excuse than the things roiling around in our heads as a reason for our distractions.

My perceived age versus my birthday age

My daughter Elizabeth celebrated her 26th birthday about a week ago. My son David will turn 23 in a few weeks.

And I ask myself: "How can I be old enough to have children that old?"

The age that I perceive to be and the age that I actually am don't match up. My perceived age is a lot younger than the date of birth listed on my driver's license.

It's a Baby Boomer thing. I don't think perceived age is exclusive to Baby Boomers. My mother has said on occasion that she doesn't see herself as old as her chronological years said she is. But Baby Boomers are making more noise about it because we're the generation that vowed to a) never get old or, failing that b) die before we get old.

Most of us prefer a) over b).

Del Webb, builder of 55 and older communities in several states, did a poll recently to measure Baby Boomers' outlook on life. It found that older Boomers feel an average of 13 years younger than their age.

"Baby Boomers have a much different mindset toward growing older than earlier generations," Deborah Blake, Del Webb creative director, said in a statement. "Feeling older is just a state of mind for many of them -- one that most have no interest in."

It's why we believe that 50 is the new 40, that 60 is the new 45.

Part of the perception is driven by a connection to an idealism borne of the 1960s and '70s that our relevance as a generation still counts. So we've remained engaged in communities, politics and parenting. To a certain extent, we still think we're smarter than everyone else.

I can still see a kid in the mirror getting ready for a day at Oswego Catholic High School. I still see a sophomore in Randall Hall at the University of New Hampshire. I still see a young reporter brushing his teeth at night after a long slog in the newsroom at the Peabody Times.

Sure, it's a little harder to see past the wrinkles under the eyes, the gray in what's left of the hair, and the double chin that's trying to go triple. But I see it in the eyes that still have the outlook of 1968, 1973 and 1980.

I'll put another candle on the birthday cake soon enough to celebrate 57. But don’t wish me a happy 57th birthday. I won't believe you: 44 is the new 57.

My weekly education from "This American Life"

Every week, for an hour, I go to class.

It's a part of my Baby Boomer continuing education.

It is said that as we age we need to keep those synapses working, give that cognitive tissue a workout.

We need to keep our minds healthy just as importantly as we need to keep our bodies healthy. Good body health may keep me away from diabetes and heart disease. Good brain health may help keep me away from Alzheimer's. At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

To accomplish both, in a true kill two birds with one stone manner, I exercise both my body and my brain by taking a four-mile power walk while listening to a podcast of "This American Life" on National Public Radio.

I look forward to the walk and the way it raises my heart rate, and I look forward to what I'm going to learn from "This American Life" host Ira Glass and his merry band of contributors.

On my most recent walk with Ira in my ears, I learned about parasites, not a subject I would normally approach in the normal cadence of what I do day to day. I learned about the hookworm parasite as a possible cure for allergy sufferers, and it was fascinating.

I'm not making this up.

They did a terrific job -- better than anyone in the media, in fact -- explaining the housing crisis and how it helped bring down Wall Street. For once, I understood stood something about the economy. It was so good that a new group -- Planet Money -- has emerged as a National Public Radio contributor to explain economic-related news in a way that Joe Average like me can understand.

"This American Life" airs on noon each Saturday on my local NPR station. I am not allowed to hear it live. If I'm in the car listening to public radio at the time in comes on the station has to change. That's true in my car and it's true if I'm riding with my wife Jane in her car.

Because I download the episode as a podcast then transfer it to my iPod for my weekly walk with Ira.

The broadcasts are no more than an hour, which fits in to my pace of walking my four miles in under an hour.

I often laugh out loud -- particularly when a contribution from David Sedaris is involved.

And I always learn something new.

This graying brain appreciates it.

A lesson in living

When I met Dana Jennings back in the late 1970s, I thought of him as the student and I was the professional; he was the boy, I was the man; he was the intern, I was the full-fledged reporter.

After many years, Dana (at left) and I saw each other this week at the University of New Hampshire, where he'd been invited as a visiting journalist as a part of the UNH journalism program.

We're only separated in age by five years. Funny how time skews context. Back then, with me in my mid-20s and Dana in his early 20s, the difference of five years seemed like a big deal, a gap of generations.

These days, the gap has closed: We're 50-somethings, Baby Boomers, dads to children who are either in college or college graduates. We're empty nesters.

For one semester a generation ago, when I was the City Hall reporter for the Peabody, Mass., Times daily newspaper, Dana came on as an intern from the University of New Hampshire.

I thought then I knew it all and that Dana had a lot to learn.

And, in the context of being a reporter, that was probably true. I did know a lot and Dana was just starting out.

Since then, I've worked at various community newspapers for 33 years and retired in June 2008 to a reinvented career as a keyboard for hire, writing web content for a variety of news sites.

Dana worked at a variety of newspapers like the Wall Street Journal and is now at the New York Times, all in relative anonymity ... until he started blogging on the NYT's Well blog about his prostate cancer.

You need to take some time and read Dana's posts.

Go there now. Click on the link above. If you don't come back to these words that's OK. But find a way to read Dana's posts.

He will show you through his writing -- through his grace and his humor -- how he has coped with his diagnosis, treatment and recovery from an aggressive Stage 3 cancer.

Many of us as we age, want to find a way to express how we lived, to put the years into some kind of context and perspective. Dana shows how writing can lead to discovery.

He transforms the personal into the universal. His posts about his cancer are intensely personal, but have a universal ring to the thousands of people who have responded online to his posts.

As a reporter over the years, Dana like other reporters played an anonymous role of providing readers with just the facts ma'am. "Blogging," he said to a gathering at UNH, "gave me time to find my voice."

Dana told me the other day he regarded me as a mentor back then. He returns the favor. A hundred fold.

He, like he does for so many who read his blog, mentors me by showing what it means to live and reach beyond who you think you are and what you're capable of doing.

Residing in the virtual land of Facebook

I'm not a very good citizen of Facebook.

There are the people who are very active; then there's me. There are people who have a lot to say -- sometimes too much to say; then there's me. There are people who get charged up about every little thing that's going on in Facebook nation; then there's me.

I guess the virtual world there at Facebook is like the real work here. I don't get too worked up one way or the other about the whole thing.

A lot of my tribe -- as in Baby Boomers -- are venturing into the virtual world of Facebook. In lieu of face-to-face visits or phone calls or letters or even email, it's a good way to be connected to family and friends. The updates give me a sense of who's doing what.

According to a recent statistic that was part of a technology post on USA Today's web site, 47 percent of Baby Boomers are active in social media and nearly three quarters of those social media activists have a Facebook account. Only 13 percent used Twitter.

As a self-employed writer for the web (we're called content producers) I'm active on the business side of Facebook with my Broad Cove Media page.

But I'm not so active on my personal Facebook page. I'm just an Average Joe.

It may be because I'm as confused about the Facebook world as I am about the real world sometimes. I just can't figure it out. I don't understand why certain people do what they do.

I kind of hang out at the edges (I'm a lurker, I think I'm called) and watch as the Facebook world spins around.

I don't get involved in the games that people play -- the Mafia Wars, for example. I didn't get involved in Doppeldanger Week when you were supposed to substitute your profile photo with the famous person who could be your twin.

I didn't bother with the 25 facts about myself and Urban Dictionary Week. I don't get too charged up everytime Facebook reorganizes everyone's page layout, which seems quite often.

At one point, the women with whom I'm friends on Facebook were writing comments with a color: purple or pink or black. It was totally lost on me. It wasn't until weeks later did I find out that women posted the color of the bra they were currently wearing to support breast-cancer awareness. Go figure.

"Lost" describes more than a confusing TV show. It can describe my life on Facebook.

The most telling portrait of the Facebook world came from my 22-year-old son David who was a Facebook user long before his old man.

His account was recently hacked; spam and links to potential sites with viruses were being posted in his name to his friends. So he deleted the account. He blew up his Facebook world. Frankly, he said, he doesn't miss it.

If Facebook disappeared tomorrow, would I miss it? Not really. I'm happy to be bopping along here in the real world.

Getting confused about muscle memory

I've been thinking how best to confuse my memory.

My muscle memory.

My brain memory can get confused enough, thank you very much.

It's seems over the years I've developed quite a bit of muscle memory without even knowing it. There are two kinds of muscle memory -- fine and gross.

The fine muscle memory I've developed include touch typing and the fingering required to play a guitar. Fine motor skills even play a role in such mundane activities as combing your hair and brushing your teeth.

Gross motor skills are those actions that require large body parts and large body movements such as those required in exercise.

Good golfers -- and I'm not one of them -- say the key to a consistently good golf shot is the muscle memory that comes from constantly repeating the elements of a good swing of a golf club.

But when it comes to workouts in order to control my weight and maintain muscle, flexibility and balance, apparently I don't want to remember too much of a good thing.

What my physical therapist daughter tells me -- along with my gym rat friends and endurance athletes --is that with regular exercise the body can become too accustomed to what you're doing, thus reducing the effectiveness of a workout.

It's a matter of getting over that plateau that our body has reached.

If I go for a 4-mile run twice a week, for example, and I trot along at a consistent 9-minute mile pace, I'm doing my body some good but I'm not maximizing how my body could benefit more from that same mileage.

The key is to diversify. Television infomercials and web sites promote all kinds of routines to mix-up and confuse muscle memory for the sake of a better workout.

For my run, on occasion I could find a track. Do some fast laps, then some slow laps, run intervals. Or maybe just do the same thing on the treadmill -- vary the speed, vary the incline.

If I go for a 1-mile swim and crawl through lap after lap after lap at about the same pace, I'm not getting as good a workout if I varied the pace and varied the strokes -- do four laps at a very fast crawl, then do two slower laps using the breast stroke, and continuing that kind of variety throughout the entire time in the pool.

But all this can be a challenge for someone like me who tries as hard as he can not to be confused and who finds comfort in repetition and routine.

But I know I've plateaued and the fact that I'm still fighting the battle of the bulge has nothing -- nothing, I say -- to do with having chips and salsa as my primary food group.

I need to concentrate on being confusing on purpose, just not confused.

Following a trend, by accident

I don't consider myself as being trendy. In fact, in retirement, I am the antithesis of trendy.

Since I don't go to an office anymore to go to work, I don't concern myself too much with the latest trends in ties or other office wear. My home office wear tends to be my pajamas until about 9:30 in the morning.

I was once trendy. Back in the days of Nehru jackets I had one, and the trendiness that followed was mostly in the fashion of what I wore to the office -- pants, jackets, shirts, ties. It was corporate trendy.

I don't think of myself as being trendy at all any more.

So, how is it that I've become trendy by having a goatee? Totally by accident, it turns out.

That news of my new-found trendiness comes from The Daily Beast, the online product of trend maven Tina Brown, late of Vanity Fair.

The cool people in today's society apparently have goatees -- actor superstar Brad Pitt, basketball superstar Kobe Bryant, and television news superstar Chuck Todd just to name a few.

Said The Daily Beast post: "Now the goatee has become the Gap T-shirt of beards. The New New Goatee can be worn at home or at the office, by the hip and unhip alike, signifying, well, just about anything."

I happened upon my goatee for the simple reason that I decided I just didn't want to shave as much anymore when I after my retirement back in June of 2008. I just got lazy.

Every morning, as part of the get-ready-for-work ritual, I shaved.

I'd been shaving for a long, long time ... since about sixth grade, given the werewolf genes among the male members of my family.

I started with a blade, then went to an electric razor for a while, then went back to a blade, always anxious for Gillette to come out with its next best thing -- the double blade, the triple blade, the quadruple blade, complete with pulsing head.

But when I stepped away from the office, I also wanted to step away from the routine that had so defined me for more than 30 years.

I didn't want to worry about whether my shoes matched my belt, whether my socks matched my shoes (or each other), whether my tie was sufficiently in style, whether my button down shirts were ironed, and whether my face was shaved or not.

What I found through my laziness, is that there's a certain gravitas to the goatee.

My mother says it makes me look 10 years older.

It is black flecked with gray ... or gray flecked with black. But I like it because it makes me look wise, much wiser than I really am.

I've earned my elder statesman status, by accident or not.

The age-to-pee ratio

There are some things about aging that are a constant.

Here's one: The older you are, the more times you're likely to need to pee. It's the age-to-pee ratio.

It is such a constant that the need to pee is big business for pharmaceutical companies. If the vast number of television commercials are to be believed, we Baby Boomers are a generation that's always looking for a bathroom.

The sad part is they're right.

I don't go anywhere without knowing where a bathroom is. The grocery store where I shop, the bank where I bank, the church where I pray all have bathrooms that have "Welcome Paul" signs.

If I drive from my home in New Hampshire to visit my daughter in Connecticut I know just the rest stop on Interstate 84 where I'll have to stop to pee. If the state of Connecticut ever closes that rest stop as a budget savings measure, I'll have to do one of two things: 1) stop visiting my daughter or 2) bring a bottle or something to pee in.

There are ratios ... way too many, in fact.

The age-to-weight ration. The age-to-cholesterol ratio. The age-to-unruly eyebrows ratio.

In all cases the older you are, the more there is -- weight, cholesterol and unruly eyebrows.

It seems odd to have my barber ask if he can trim my eyebrows for me. But it's satisfying nevertheless to get it done.

There's one inverse ratio: Age to hair, mostly for men.

The amount of hair on your head is inverse to your number of years. The older you are, the less hair you're likely to have.

On your head, that is.

The exception is your eyebrows, and your nose hair, and your ear hair.

We get more hair where we don't want it as we age, less hair where we want it.

The age ratios are the joke that nature loves to play on us Boomers as we try to hold onto the notion that we'll never grow old.

Wait your turn, Baby Boomers

I hate it when people cut in line.

That's the sense I get when I see long lines of people waiting to get H1N1 flu vaccines and some of those people in line are older folks.

They shouldn't be in line to begin with, at least not yet.

In an odd twist, the H1N1 is a flu that doesn't seem to affect older people as badly as it does younger people. During normal seasonal flu the older folks are right up there, as well they should, to get their vaccines.

But the Center for Disease Control and Prevention and other health professionals are advising older people to make way for the folks who are most at risk for H1N1:

• Pregnant women,
• People who live with or care for children younger than 6 months of age,
• Healthcare and emergency medical services personnel,
• Persons between the ages of 6 months and 24 years old.

According to the CDC, people ages of 25 through 64 years of age -- and that includes us Baby Boomers -- aren't a priority for the vaccine unless we are at higher risk because of chronic health disorders or compromised immune systems. That's something your doctor would advise you about.

Read the CDC's Q&A here.

It's women (specifically pregnant women) and children first, just as it was going for the life rafts on the Titanic.

I can't help but seethe when I watch television coverage of this H1N1 outbreak. I'm ticked off that the vaccine suppliers overpromised when the vaccine would be ready and how much of it would be available. It breaks my heart to hear that there isn't enough yet to go around and kids are becoming infected and some are dying.

And I really get ticked off when I see the reports and the long lines and the older man or woman who's being interviewed about how they couldn't get the H1N1 vaccine because they ran out.

"You shouldn't be in line to begin with!" I yell at the television.

I was heartened by one report that showed an older guy who had given up his spot in line to a pregnant woman. Great, I thought, but you still shouldn't have been in that line.

I talked to my doctor about my risk. Low, he said. Just follow good hygiene practices, he advised.

So I try to make an effort to cough and sneeze into my elbow. Those who know me know I sneeze a lot, so I'm getting well practiced at crooking my elbow to my mouth every time a sneeze comes on. I try to wash my hands frequently. I have hand sanitizing wipes and gels at the ready at home and at the gym where I work out most every day.

We can't be selfish about this. My nieces and nephews need the vaccines first. My daughter who's in health care in a large hospital needs the vaccines first.

I can wait. You can wait. We can get at the back of the line.

The need to upset the routine

Even in retirement there is routine.

It's not like, as some people believe, you retire from a career of work and begin a career of loafing around. At least that's not the experience that Baby Boomers, including this one, want for themselves.

We need to be doing something. In general, this is a generation of achievers -- over-achievers, in some cases -- and the idea of doing nothing is not an option.

In retirement we want to decide what to do with our time, not have someone decide or dictate for us what we do with our time.

My time is goes to writing and data mining as a contractor and sub-contractor. And my time goes to keeping myself healthy by going to the gym. And my time goes to keeping myself engaged in the outdoors by golfing, surfing and skiing.

And my time has a routine to it.

I'm in my home office between 6:30 and 7 a.m. each day to boot-up my computer and start writing for a couple of hours. I get to the gym usually by mid-morning. Then I get home for lunch and spend the afternoon doing rest of my contract and subcontract work. Within that routine I'll make room for the round of golf, a few hours in the surf, or some time on the mountains.

Even that routine, as appealing as it might be, needs to be broken up every now and then.

Which is why I've been happy to have been on a road trip this week to Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey.

It is said that writing is discovery. Writers explore their surroundings and discover something of themselves when they put words to paper (or words to screen). It is a mental journey.

Travel is discovery too, a tactile journey of the five senses:

• The feel of warmth of a late September sun in the left field seats at Camden Yards in Baltimore;
• The scratch of sand in my toes on Rehoboth and Dewey beaches in Delaware;
• The fleeting glimpse of dolphin leaping from the water;
• The taste of crab in the dip at Striper Bites in Lewes, Del.;
• The gentle roll of the ferry from Lewes to Cape May, N.J.;
• The glimpse through binoculars of the migrating raptors at Cape May Point.;
• The hum and clang of slots inside Caesar's and Trump casinos at Atlantic City;
• The aroma of the frutti de mare that came from the kitchen to my plate at Basil T's Brewery and Italian Restaurant in Red Bank, N.J.

In writing I can take myself so far. Travel outside of the routine takes me the rest of the way there.

This isn't what I signed up for

I'm so busy it's hard to be retired.

I had that thought this week as I was on the road in Maine, doing some contract work that would eat up most of the day -- an incredible day, in fact, that should have had me on the beach or on the golf course.

The day before I'd spent the day reporting and writing about the President Barack Obama's visit to New Hampshire; I got credentialed to cover him for Examiner.com.

With Obama taking up all of Tuesday, with the job-related road trip taking up most of Wednesday, I would have to devote Thursday to catch up on the contract and freelance work I didn't get to.

I'm retired. I'm an empty nester. So where is all this free time I'm supposed to have? Is this what I signed up for? Is it a bad thing that even the president is cutting into my retirement free time?

With the weather finally acting more like summer around here, my mission was to commence the Endless Summer.

Instead, I'm juggling appointments and phone calls and to-do lists.

The fact is I'm happier now in retirement than I was a year ago as a three-month retiree.

The hardest part about retirement is filling the time with stuff that's engaging.

I had hoped to volunteer but I haven't found anything I'm passionate about to invest my volunteer time. Maybe that'll come some day; it just isn't here yet.

So I've tried to advantage of what I do best ... write.

I may bitch about being busy, but it's only for effect.

I'd rather have way too much to do than way too little to do.

A good day in the pool

I don't know what it is about me, water and the creative process, but we work well together.

Sit me down in front of a computer and try to force creativity doesn't always turn out so well.

When it comes to the writing I do, the creative process starts with a good idea. If I have a good idea about a subject or a trend or an issue I can usually formulate the idea into a column or story that I'll then post on one of the blogs I contribute to.

Trouble is, I do some of my best story idea thinking in the shower or while swimming laps in the gym pool.

I'm not sure what it is about the water of a shower or the water in a pool. Is it the isolation that a shower or pool affords? Immersed in H2O with little more than your thoughts?

Then the task is remembering the ideas long enough to actually get them down on paper.

I've always been the kind of person who has to write things down in order to remember them. It's why I have a pad of paper and pencil in my car. It's why I have a notepad and pen on the refrigerator. I love shopping lists. I love to do lists. I love sticky notes. I love having my head attached to my shoulders so that I don't leave it behind somewhere.

If I'm in the shower and a good idea strikes, it's not terribly difficult getting to a piece of paper. I get out of the shower, dry myself off, wrap a towel around me -- usually -- and go across the hall to my home/office to jot down the idea.

It becomes a little trickier in the pool.

I can lose an idea in a heartbeat if I get distracted and don't write the idea down.

In the pool, it means I've got to keep the idea (or ideas) through the swim, which can be as long as a half hour, through the shower, through getting dressed and through getting out of the gym and into the car.

Since there's not much to do while swimming anyways, I try to sear the ideas into my head with the mental equivalent of etching a message on a piece of metal.

It doesn't always work, but this week I came out of the pool with four good story ideas that survived the creative process. And I didn't have to run naked to the car to get them on paper.

The squirrels must die!

Since my birthday a few weeks ago, when my mother gave me a birdfeeder as a gift, I've been locked in mortal combat with the squirrels.

I want to feed the birds. I don't want to feed the squirrels. Yet, the squirrels have been ingenious (and I'm talking Mensa genius) about getting to the black oil sunflower seeds I use to fill my feeder.

It got to the point where I wanted to exercise my Second Amendment right to bear arms to establish myself as a well regulated -- but half-crazed -- militia with the sole purpose of protecting my right to feed birds, not squirrels.

I was angling the wife for something that I could set on full automatic, but she said no. (She doesn't let me have power tools either.) So I started angling for wide-spray shotgun, and she said no. Then how about a .22? Or a BB gun? Or a cap gun? No, no, and no.

So it was going to be squirrel wile against my wile. Mano a mano. Wilo a wilo.

Trouble is, those squirrels are one wily bunch.

There was a particular place on our porch that I wanted to place the birdfeeder for easy viewing while we sit in the living room and for easy access to refill the feeder. And I tried to place the feeder in such a way as to put it out of reach of the squirrels.

I put it out on a 15-inch arm hanging planter and Superglued tacks on the arm to create the Plank of Death. That would discourage them. And a large cover over the top so they couldn't drop in my parachute.

And for the most part it worked. Until the squirrels put out a call for the tallest squirrel in the forest, one who could stretch himself in a way that resembles Wilt Chamberlain stretching for a basket.

He pulled himself to full stretch and put enough force on the plastic base to separate it from the feeder, spilling sunflower seeds to the grass below, much to the delight of the assembled squirrel population.

It was at that point that I emailed my wife who was at work with the subject line of: "The squirrels must die!"

The wife thinks the birdfeeder is an old person activity. But I wasn't the one the other morning who was scolding the squirrels to keep away as they lurked about the feeder.

After way too much angst I abandoned the Plank of Death idea of placing the birdfeeder off the porch. Using an S-hook and equipped with a plastic squirrel baffler from Home Depot, I've hung it from a gutter, positioned in front of the living room picture window.

The chickadees like it. The finches like it. Even the cardinals, who I think are a little skittish about seeing their reflection in the window, are fairly regular visitors. And no squirrels. Which means I like it.

But I'm wary. The squirrels are still lurking. They're smart. They're wily. And I still want my right to bear arms. A high-powered squirt gun?

No retreat, no surrender

I'm not going to be one of those apologists for the Baby Boomer generation.

In my role as the national Baby Boomer Examiner for Examiner.com, I've written several posts over the last several months about Baby Boomer bashing from the likes of President Barack Obama to a variety of college graduation speakers.

Well, to quote an iconic movie from my generation -- "Network" -- I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

Every generation defines itself in good ways and bad.

The World War II generation of my mom and dad made incredible sacrifices in the name of country and world peace. But it is also the generation that gave us the atomic bomb, nuclear proliferation and MADness of the Cold War -- mutually assured destruction. It held to segregation and the inequality of gender rights.

Then come the children of the World War II generation -- the Baby Boomers.

And as we age, as the oldest members of our cohort are 63 this year our legacy is being considered with some derision.

Obama, himself a Baby Boomer, albeit at the youngest end of the spectrum, rallied a whole new generation of voters by railing against the politics of the older generation.

It was a theme of his book "The Audacity of Hope":

“In the back and forth between Clinton and Gingrich, and in the elections of 2000 and 2004, I sometimes felt as if I were watching the psychodrama of the baby boom generation — a tale rooted in old grudges and revenge plots hatched on a handful of college campuses long ago — played out on the national stage."

It was repeated in his inaugural address: "On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn-out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics."

It got worse in May during the parade of college commencement speakers who told graduating seniors -- which included my son David -- that they were entering a miserable period of joblessness and recession brought on my the uncaring excesses of their Baby Boomer parents.

To characterize my generation as the greedy Yuppies of the 1980s or as intractable politicians ignores the contributions. Socially and politically, it was the Baby Boomers who took to the streets to, at times, literally fight for racial equality and peace. The Sexual Revolution of the generation brought greater gender balance at home and at work. The environmental was essentially a dumping ground until the Baby Boomers came along and pushed for its protection.

And we brought an educated, committed work ethic to the office buildings and factories that created unprecedented productivity.

Trust me. We're not done yet. Those qualities of fair play, caring and creativity that we had in our 20s and 30s? We still have them today in our 50 and 60s, and we will still have them in our 70s and 80s.