Tag: health

  • I Can’t Remember If I’m Losing My Mind

    I Can’t Remember If I’m Losing My Mind

    If you’re in your sixties, you may be terrified by your cognitive decline because you don’t know the difference between normal aging, mild cognitive impairment, and dementia. You’re eager to make exercise and dietary choices that might slow the decline. You may even consider medication if that’s the best route. More than anything, you want to be informed rather than left in the dark.

    My concerns about memory loss began in my late fifties when I noticed that if I didn’t play one of my piano compositions every couple of weeks, I would forget parts of it. Around sixty-four, I noticed more forgetfulness. I would share a story with my wife and then repeat it several hours later until she interrupted me to explain that she’d already heard it. In my college classes, I might tell an anecdote in the third week and repeat it in the tenth, only to hear students laughing and pointing out my redundancy. Once I left the burner on low after making pasta sauce, and another time I left my work keys in the door at work. In both cases, I was multitasking. Doing several things at once has become more of a liability than ever.

    Like many people in my age bracket, I became fearful. I didn’t know what constituted normal cognitive aging and what might point to something more serious.

    I needed a guide, so I did some research and came upon Seven Steps to Managing Your Aging Memory: What’s Normal, What’s Not, and What to Do About It, by neurologist Andrew Budson and neuropsychologist Maureen O’Connor. They begin with Step 1, an explanation of normal and abnormal memory loss. They write “that the difference between normal and abnormal memory isn’t necessarily the type of problems that occur but rather the frequency and severity of those problems.”

    They describe memories as episodes: having a meal, completing a workout, going to a movie, and so on. These episodes create coherent stories full of sensory details. No one has perfect memory or recall, so let go of that myth. There are many reasons we fail to remember things. If you’re not paying attention to your surroundings but are going through the motions on autopilot, or you’re distracted, you’re less likely to remember what happened.

    The authors observe that anxiety and depression can interfere with memory. So if you’re a self-absorbed depressive who spends too much time living inside his own head, you may not be particularly attentive to the external world.

    As I read Seven Steps to Managing Your Aging Memory, I see an ongoing theme: You need to train yourself to pay attention. As the frontal lobes age, certain aspects of attention and executive function can become less efficient. The result may resemble some symptoms of ADHD. I was never diagnosed with ADHD, but I’m convinced I’ve had some of its traits all my life. If that’s the case, my aging frontal lobes have given me a new layer of ADHD-like symptoms over an already existing layer.

    The authors discuss strategies for improving attention, including the use of stimulants such as coffee. I drink my morning coffee religiously. My attention is at its best in the morning, when I do my best reading and writing.

    At the end of Chapter Two, titled “How Does Memory Change in Normal Aging?,” the authors explain that spending over an hour trying to find your car in a parking lot is not normal. This made me wonder whether I’ve been cognitively impaired all my life. Like my maternal grandmother, I have a horrible sense of direction. In 1980, during my sophomore year in college, it took me nearly half an hour to find my car. For the last decade or so, whenever I park in a giant garage, I photograph the identifying numbers so I can find my car later.

    My wife has known me for nearly thirty years. Throughout that time, she has observed that I live too much inside my head. We’ve all heard the cliché of the absent-minded professor. I’ve lived up to that cliché since I was in my thirties. I’ve shown up to class wearing slacks with tags and vertical strips of tape still affixed to them or wearing my shirt inside-out, only to be made aware of these sartorial violations by my attentive students. Old age may simply make the absent-mindedness more pronounced. In more serious cases, however, memory and navigation problems can point to Alzheimer’s disease. Warning signs include getting lost while driving and being unable to use familiar visual cues to find your way back, regularly forgetting appointments, repeatedly losing things, and asking the same questions or telling the same stories without remembering having done so. Such patterns can reflect the rapid forgetting associated with Alzheimer’s disease.


    I do repeat myself. For two consecutive weeks, I forgot that Thursday evening was when I was supposed to take one of my daughters to see her therapist. I also left a stovetop burner on, although that happened only once. So I’m not sure where I stand.

    I called my doctor to arrange a phone consultation and a cognitive assessment.

    One screening questionnaire discussed in the book is the AD8. Answering yes to two or more questions can indicate possible cognitive impairment that warrants further evaluation. It does not, by itself, establish Alzheimer’s disease or any other brain disorder.

    I answered yes to exactly two questions. Number 3 states: “Repeats the same things over and over (questions, stories, or statements).” I repeat myself, but usually only once. Does that count as a yes? Then there’s Number 7: “Trouble remembering appointments.” I forgot my daughter’s therapy appointment twice in a row and was so mortified that I doubt I’ll forget again. Does that count?

    Ambiguity is not helpful here, but the authors make a statement about dementia that is not ambiguous. They write that “Dementia indicates impairment of daily function due to problems with thinking and memory.”

    So the question is this: Is my daily functioning impaired? And that leads to a second question: How severe does the impairment have to be before it crosses the threshold into dementia?

    I suspect the next chapter of my life will involve exploring that second question more rigorously through cognitive testing, medical consultation, and lifestyle changes designed to protect my memory.

    I need to find out whether I have something called subjective cognitive decline, a condition in which people perceive a deterioration in their cognitive abilities even though standardized testing may show normal performance. I know I’m not the same person I used to be. I feel compromised, and I worry that this compromise may point to greater memory loss later in life.

    Or perhaps I have mild cognitive impairment, in which measurable cognitive difficulties don’t substantially interfere with independent daily functioning. Some people with this condition develop dementia, while others remain stable or even improve. The risk depends on the underlying cause, so I can’t assume that I face a fifty-fifty chance of developing dementia.

    Dementia is a general term for cognitive decline severe enough to interfere with independent functioning. It isn’t synonymous with Alzheimer’s disease, which is one possible cause. The authors define Alzheimer’s more specifically, writing that “Alzheimer’s is a brain disease characterized by amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles.” The disease often affects memory-related structures, including the hippocampus, before progressing through other regions of the brain.

    Regular aerobic exercise, a healthy diet, and an active social life are among the habits associated with better cognitive health and a lower risk of dementia. Addicted to exercise and partial to a Mediterranean-style diet, I do reasonably well in the physical health department, although I could stand to lose thirty pounds.

    But the social component is more disturbing. Antisocial, introverted, and depressive, I’ve failed considerably in the social health category.

    My wife began worrying about my lack of a social life a few years ago. She was also the first to express concern about my memory loss. So I got off my butt, started doing some research, called my doctor for an appointment, and decided to become proactive about my cognitive health.

    I know a retired martial arts instructor who used to be an officemate at the college. I need to reach out to him and see whether he’ll join me for an hour-long walk at the beach every week. That kind of social routine could be a first step.

    I’m not hopeless. I didn’t dismiss my wife’s concerns. I took them seriously and responded appropriately. I just hope I haven’t done too little too late. If I do have a serious form of memory loss, my goal, as the authors advise, is to manage it so that it doesn’t take over my life.

    One thing is clear. Memory loss can lead to anxiety and depression, and anxiety and depression can produce cognitive symptoms that resemble dementia. So I may be dealing with a recursive loop, one condition feeding the other in a vicious cycle of what has sometimes been called “pseudodementia.”

    One thing I know that fights depression and learned helplessness is knowledge.

    I must continue the deep dive.

  • Pumping Iron Against the Dying Light

    Pumping Iron Against the Dying Light

    The desire to work out in the garage with weights, mostly kettlebells for the last two decades, has not abated as I close in on my sixty-fifth birthday. There is no voice inside me saying, “Someday you will hang up your leather workout gloves.” I embrace the workout grind with undying enthusiasm. I remember reading a bodybuilding magazine in the 70s and coming across a quote from a champion bodybuilder: “I’m going to keep training as long as God allows me to breathe.” I’m on the same page. Working out is not an option. It’s as essential as breathing.

    I have to assume that since my first workout in 1974, I’ve been getting a dopamine fix from these training sessions, resulting in stress relief. I have to assume working out is my way of managing anxiety and depression. I have to assume my workouts are addictive in their own right. If I miss a workout, I feel so ungrounded that I become unbearable to myself and others. This makes vacations a challenge. What’s supposed to be a time of stress relief becomes a stress bomb.

    Working out for an hour a day is not just about carving out an hour for exercise. It’s about creating an entire routine built around that hour. The feedings, the naps, the piano, the writing, the creative work, and the chores all revolve around the 10 a.m. workout.

    So the Happy Place, as people might call it, is not just the garage, where the alchemy of resistance and sweat takes place while a radio tuned to news talk hums in the background. It’s the entire daily routine.

    Essential to this routine, after the workout shower and feeding, is the nap. I am so spent after a workout that I demand sixty minutes flat on my back with noise-canceling headphones and one of my favorite podcasts before waking up and having my yogurt bowl. Without that nap, I would not be able to go on for the rest of the day. Something is taken away from me during that morning workout. Something is given back to me after that afternoon nap.

    I am more than a hopeless workout guy. I am a hopeless nostalgic workout guy. My heart is not just in the gym. It’s in an era. I’m talking about the 70s, the only bodybuilding age I connect with. In my mind, I am training and eating protein bars with Arnold, Draper, Zane, Mentzer, Oliva, Nubret, and others. I am tanning with the greats on Venice Beach and talking about preacher curls, donkey raises, and hack squats until the orange sun sets in the salmon sky. I am connected with others, the dream of eternal youth, and the Life Force.

    Man does not live on bread alone. He lives on myth. I find solace in entering a 70s portal where I am a well-preserved Adonis consuming protein bowls and nutritional shakes. I am reminded of one of John Cheever’s most famous short stories, “The Swimmer.” Aged and washed-up, the main character, Neddy Merrill, decides to swim a chain of swimming pools, which he imagines as the Lucinda River, to travel from a distant house to his home. He imagines himself as a pilgrim embarked on a quest to achieve mythic glory. But all his self-mythologizing distracts him from the brutal fact that his selfish and alcoholic ways have severed his ties with family and friends. He returns to a home that is boarded up and empty.

    Looking at this cautionary tale, I must remind myself that workouts are no panacea. My dependence on them and the routines that surround them can make me more self-absorbed than is healthy for me and my family. But in many ways, it’s too late to go back. When I started working out at thirteen and a few years later saw Arnold and other legends in the movie Pumping Iron, I crossed some invisible Rubicon from which there would be no return.

  • AI Writing Has Entered Its Angel Flights Era

    AI Writing Has Entered Its Angel Flights Era

    Performative AI-enhanced composition is to writing what Angel Flights disco party pants were to fashion in the 1970s: Both are embarrassing expressions of gauche, unbridled ostentation doomed to a short shelf life. Both deserve funerals to announce their extinction.

    That AI-enhanced composition, which took off in 2023, has expired in 2026 became apparent to me after reading an Amazon review of Orgain peanut butter protein powder. The review slapped me in the face like a warning that I must never use AI as a co-writer because if you ask AI to perform for you, it will deliver the same bag of tricks an uncouth used-car salesman uses to deceive the gullible car buyer.

    This cheap bag of tricks is evident throughout the protein powder review. The reviewer begins: “I’ve tried so many protein powders that my blender probably has trust issues.” The attempt at comedy by telling Amazon readers that your blender has trust issues announces that you wanted to be a comedian in another life but got stuck writing an AI-boosted Amazon review instead.

    Then the reviewer complains about the horrible protein powders she endured before discovering Orgain: “Chalky ones, gritty ones, ones that taste like someone whispered ‘peanut butter’ into a bag of dirt.” That a substandard protein powder whispers “peanut butter” into a bag of dirt is a case of someone trying too hard to be funny. Writing with AI can do that to you. It can give you a facade of acerbic wit and verbal moxie that becomes part of your schtick. Eventually, not using AI in this manner makes you feel naked.

    Not wanting to write in her natural state, the reviewer continues with the AI boost: “This stuff is ridiculously good. It tastes like actual peanut butter instead of a chemistry experiment, blends smoothly into smoothies, and somehow even makes my morning coffee feel like it came from a trendy café charging $9 a cup.” Comparing bad protein powder to a chemistry experiment gone awry is another example of AI enhancement. Telling the reader that Orgain powder elevates your home-brewed coffee to overpriced artisan coffee is an example of AI hyperbole going off the rails.

    The review becomes less an appraisal of protein powder and more of a muscle-flex. In this regard, AI becomes a can of Muscle-Flex that you add to inferior writing the way you add Hamburger Helper to expired, off-color hamburger.

    The AI-augmented praise continues: “No clumps. No weird aftertaste. No regretting my life choices halfway through the shaker bottle.” As someone who has experimented with AI for the last four years, I can attest that throwing in “regretting my life choices” is a familiar, overused tool of AI wit.

    The AI-loving reviewer continues the hyperbole with her praise of Orgain: “And the best part? The price doesn’t require a second mortgage.” Comparing a high-priced protein powder to a second mortgage is another clichéd use of AI hyperbole. I see it all the time, not only in my own AI experiments but in my students’ writing as well.

    Just as Angel Flights bell-bottoms could never flare horizontally enough, AI hyperbole can never be extreme enough. Over time, the extremes become mind-numbing. The earnest attempt to impress and razzle-dazzle becomes a sign of desperation rather than skill, talent, or good taste.

    That the funeral for performative AI-enhanced composition has arrived in 2026 should cause us all to celebrate. It is an occasion to reclaim our authenticity and use AI the way it should be used: not as a co-author but as an editor. Our writing should belong to us and us alone. AI can correct grammar, help us achieve clarity and concision, and repair awkward sentence structure, but beyond that, we are venturing into the disco in our Angel Flights.

    And we all know how that ended.

  • My Accidental COVID Shot

    My Accidental COVID Shot

    It was a sunny morning on the first of October when I sat taking notes in a Kaiser doctor’s office in Carson while my wife and her surgeon reviewed the post-op do’s and don’ts. Nothing over ten pounds for six weeks. No blood-thinning ibuprofen during that time. She could sleep on her side but not her stomach. She could lift her arms over her head. In a week, she would want vitamin E oil for the affected areas. In about a month, silicone scar cream.

    Eventually the conversation drifted from post-op recovery to their shared interest in child-rearing. My wife is a middle-school health and language arts teacher; the doctor has a one-year-old and a three-year-old and is currently serving a life sentence in the maximum-security wing of parenting.

    I grew antsy.

    A week earlier, I had missed my opportunity to get a drive-through flu shot, and at nearly sixty-five I don’t like missing my shots. Vaccinations have become another maintenance item, like rotating the tires or changing the furnace filter. Ignore the schedule long enough and something expensive starts coughing.

    I excused myself, received the blessing of my wife and her doctor, and took the elevator down to Floor One, where I found the vaccine station. I filled out a form, assured everyone that vaccines did not cause me to transform into Mr. Hyde, and sat beside a friendly nurse in her early thirties.

    “You’re okay with Pfizer?” she asked.

    “What are my other choices?”

    “None.”

    “Then don’t offer me Diet Pepsi when there’s only Diet Coke.”

    She laughed.

    The shot burned like hell. It burned even more after the needle came out, but I maintained my dignity, thanked the nurse, and returned to Floor Three, where my wife was waiting in the post-op area.

    I told her about the burning.

    “Did you get a flu shot?” she asked.

    I nodded. Of course I had. I had gone to the flu-shot station she had pointed out earlier.

    “Sounds like you got a COVID shot.”

    “She did say it was Pfizer.”

    “That’s COVID, dude.”

    There are moments when a single sentence rearranges reality.

    We returned to the vaccine station, and sure enough, sitting there in plain sight were two stacks of forms: one for flu and one for COVID.

    I was a car that needed unleaded and had somehow filled itself with diesel.

    Since I was already there—and apparently collecting vaccines like G-Shocks—I decided I might as well get the flu shot too, this time in the opposite arm.

    I rolled up my sleeve.

    “Flex or relax?”

    “Relax,” the nurse said, “or you’ll be sorry.”

    This seemed like excellent advice for vaccines, aging, and perhaps life in general.

    I relaxed.

    I thanked her for both shots and returned to my wife, who reminded me that the last COVID vaccine had turned me into a basket case for about twenty-four hours. This was unfortunate timing. She was recovering from surgery and needed me functioning at something approaching full capacity, not wandering around the house shivering beneath a blanket and announcing that death was imminent.

    I promised that when we got home, I would take three ibuprofen and a nap and prepare myself for whatever punishment my immune system had scheduled for the next twenty-four hours.

    Perhaps I should be grateful. Through a combination of diligence, confusion, and poor signage comprehension, I had knocked out two vaccines in one visit. My shingles vaccinations had been completed six months earlier. Now COVID and flu were checked off the list.

    At nearly sixty-five, you begin to appreciate these small victories. Retirement is approaching, bringing with it enough disruptions, anxieties, medical appointments, identity crises, and mysterious bodily developments without influenza, shingles, or COVID joining the welcoming committee.

    So perhaps I’m ready.

    We shall see.

    Meanwhile, I’m eager to tear off these damn Band-Aids.

  • The Handwriting May Outlive the Mind

    The Handwriting May Outlive the Mind

    Dementia and cognitive decline are real concerns in old age. Think of them as the hurricane forming somewhere offshore. You don’t know if it will hit you, but you prepare anyway. Stock up on water and canned beans. Nail plywood over the windows. Make sure you have quick access to the potato cellar.

    Old age requires its own hurricane preparations. Don’t carry excess body weight. Maintain normal blood pressure. Go easy on sugar. Exercise. Avoid alcohol. Don’t smoke. If your hearing deteriorates to the point that you withdraw from conversation and retreat into your own head, get a hearing aid. Keep your mind active. Build what researchers call cognitive reserve—the brain’s capacity to withstand some of the damage associated with aging and disease while continuing to function.

    You can challenge yourself by playing a musical instrument, doing crossword puzzles, starting a podcast, learning something difficult, or writing a multigenerational novel. Think of these pursuits as mental exercise, potentially as important to your aging brain as going to the gym five days a week is to your aging body.

    But not all mental exercise is equal.

    Consider journaling, that beloved sacrament of wellness culture. Journaling requires a physical notebook, your favorite pen or mechanical pencil, perhaps a steaming mug of tea positioned nearby for atmosphere. For this one noble endeavor, you have gone off the grid. You are the intellectual equivalent of outdoorsman Euell Gibbons, wandering through the wilderness and surviving on the edible portions of pinecones.

    Writer and professor Katie Roiphe challenges our assumptions about this supposedly healthy practice in her essay “Is Journaling Bad for You?” Her objections are formidable. For one thing, your journal is never as private as you imagine. Eventually some nosy relative will root through your belongings like a truffle sow and unearth thoughts never intended for public consumption.

    Worse, those thoughts may be misunderstood. They may even repel people who once loved you. The disparity between the person they thought they knew and the creature muttering from the pages of your private notebook may be too great to reconcile.

    You may not particularly enjoy meeting your former selves, either.

    Reading your journals twenty years later can become an archaeological excavation of every insecurity, obsession, grievance, humiliation, and catastrophically stupid opinion you once possessed. Instead of illuminating the present, your journal can lure you backward. Like Lot’s wife, you become fixated on what lies behind you and eventually turn into a pillar of salt—though perhaps one with very good handwriting.

    Then there is the problem of introspection cosplay.

    You may believe you’re plumbing the depths of your psyche when you’re really performing the role of Thoughtful Person. Instead of being brutally honest with yourself, you curate your introspection. Journaling becomes an exercise in self-regard, another platform for presenting yourself to an audience—even if the audience consists entirely of you.

    You become like the gym novice who spends two hours at the fitness center every day talking to people, listening to music, watching television, drinking smoothies, checking his phone, and occasionally wandering onto a treadmill. Six months later, he stands before the mirror bewildered that he has somehow failed to transform into an Olympic decathlete.

    But the fact that journaling can be done badly—and occasionally with disastrous consequences—is not an argument against journaling. It is an argument against performative journaling.

    If you can be unflinchingly honest with yourself, by all means journal. If you understand, in accordance with Sturgeon’s Law, that 90 percent of everything you write will be crap, by all means journal. If you approach your inner life with the same rigor that someone brings to a serious circuit-training session—working rather than posing, examining rather than admiring—then by all means journal.

    Roiphe’s argument, as I understand it, isn’t really against journaling. It is against confusing the performance of introspection with introspection itself. Beneath her skepticism lies an argument for authenticity.

    And perhaps that brings us back to cognitive decline.

    We worry about forgetting names, losing words, walking into rooms without remembering why we went there. These are frightening possibilities, and we should do what we reasonably can to protect ourselves.

    But there may be another kind of cognitive failure worth fearing: losing the ability to distinguish between examining your life and performing an examination of your life.

    You can fill a thousand notebooks and never confront yourself.

    The handwriting may remain perfectly legible while the mind behind it disappears.

  • Nobody Ever Needed an Angiogram Because of Too Many Seikos

    Nobody Ever Needed an Angiogram Because of Too Many Seikos

    As I close in on sixty-five and retirement in eight months, I hunger for life changes. A new chapter makes life feel longer. It’s like adding a second story to your house. You get the permits, hire the contractors, endure six months of dust, and your single-story shack becomes a glorious two-story home. Surely you will live longer now.

    A lot of these life changes are fantasies. I find myself looking at real estate. With my suburban Los Angeles home approaching two million dollars in value, I could sell it and buy a sort of mansion in Henderson, Las Vegas, or Orlando, Florida—a place big enough that I could finally trade in my Yamaha upright for a grand piano.

    I know it would be ridiculous to make my wife and teenage twin daughters pack their belongings and move to Nevada or Florida so I could indulge my fantasy of “starting life over.” Such a rebirth in a new land would mostly be a chimera. No matter where I went, I’d still have Netflix, a nearby bagel place, and a Costco. I would have traveled hundreds of miles to discover that I was still me.

    So as a proxy for uprooting my Southern California life, I look for smaller transformations. One has already occurred: my obsessive watch hobby.

    I currently have two discrete collections, Seiko divers and G-Shocks. The Seikos are the expensive ones. I own four mechanical Seiko divers that cost between $1,200 and $3,400 apiece. I spent about $8,100 on those mechanical divers, plus another $1,200 on my iconic quartz Seiko Tuna. Altogether, I have about $9,300 sitting in a box telling time.

    What amazes me is that after twenty years of manically flipping watches—buying and selling them in an addictive frenzy—I stopped buying expensive Seiko divers more than a year ago.

    The last mechanical Seiko I bought, the Coastline Diver SBDC203, was purchased in August 2025. My SLA023, SLA051, SLA055, and quartz SBBN049 Tuna have been around considerably longer. This is a dramatic departure from the years when I could buy and sell a thousand-dollar watch every month as if horological instability were a medical condition.

    Something changed.

    I slowed down until, eventually, I stopped. I have bought nothing in the mechanical realm for more than thirteen months. There was no declaration, act of will, twelve-step program, or magical incantation. The desire simply weakened. I died to the frenzy.

    During this stoppage, however, a far less expensive subcollection appeared. Over the last eight months, I accumulated a modest collection of G-Shocks: the Frogman GWF-1000, Mudman GW-9500, Mudman G-9300, Rescue GW-7900, and King GXW-56-1BJF. I also own the famous GW-5000U, although my wife has largely annexed it.

    I am content with my G-Shocks. I currently have nothing on my wishlist.

    Well, almost nothing.

    I admire the G-Shock GWF-D1000BC with its DLC coating and combi bracelet, but it is an absurdly overqualified Hero Watch for a man who spends most of his time playing piano and doing dishes in a suburban kitchen. At $1,500, buying it would carry a faint whiff of desperation: an aging consumer hoping another cardboard box on the doorstep might generate a fresh squirt of dopamine.

    I have ridden that merry-go-round enough times to know where it stops.

    Buying the Frogman might produce more shame than pleasure, so I am resisting it.

    My watch-wearing habits have changed as well. Ninety-five percent of the time, I wear G-Shocks. They are comfortable, atomic-time accurate, solar-powered, and worry-free. I still look at my Seiko divers and marvel at their beauty, but I no longer feel connected to them the way I once did.

    They belong to my past self.

    They are me living in the one-story house. They are vintage cars I take out for a ten-minute drive every four months before carefully returning them to the garage.

    The G-Shocks are my new companions. The G-Shocks and I live upstairs in my imaginary mansion.

    More important, the affordable G-Shocks comfort me in a way the expensive mechanical watches no longer do. Mechanical watches are beautiful little stress generators. They can require hundreds of dollars in servicing and reward your investment by keeping approximately the correct time.

    My G-Shocks are Tough Solar and synchronize with the atomic clock in Fort Collins. They ask almost nothing of me.

    It is as if the Invisible Retirement Sherpa whispered into my ear: “You don’t need another job flipping and worrying about expensive watches. You already have a new job. Retirement. Put on the G-Shock and get moving.”

    So I did not buy a mansion in Henderson or Orlando.

    I started a new life with G-Shocks.

    I hunger for other changes as well, particularly regarding health and diet. Last night I dreamed I was at a party. I went into the hosts’ bathroom, pulled up my shirt, and confronted a gut that did not inspire confidence. I was overcome with dread—not simply because of my expanding lower torso but because of what it represented: a man so consumed by food noise that he could not control himself.

    I lowered the watch noise.

    Could I lower the food noise?

    That raises a harder question: How do we lower unwanted noise in the first place? My appetite for expensive watches died largely on its own. I didn’t wrestle it into submission. Food is another matter.

    And the stakes are considerably higher. Nobody ever needed an angiogram because he bought too many Seikos.

    Recently I spoke with my eighty-one-year-old aunt in Minnesota. After experiencing shortness of breath and dizziness, she underwent an angiogram, the same procedure my grandfather had in his late seventies. Heart blockages have appeared on my mother’s side of the family. If changing my diet could reduce my chances of eventually following them into the cardiac catheterization lab, I would like to make that change now.

    But what would that diet look like? Do I go for the gold standard and become plant-based? What happens then? Do I become a social pariah, a weirdo, a scold—the guy interrogating the waiter about chicken stock while everyone else is trying to order dinner?

    And would I really care if the diet helped keep my arteries open?

    So from both a health and moral standpoint, I fantasize about becoming vegan in much the same way I fantasize about moving into a mansion in Henderson. The vegan life represents another new chapter, another second story added to the house.

    For now, however, veganism, like fleeing Los Angeles, remains a chimera.

    Meanwhile, I am typing on a satisfyingly clicky mechanical keyboard with my trusty G-Shock Rescue on my wrist.

    Change is not impossible.

    Sometimes you notice only after it has already happened.

  • Ozempic and the Gospel of Suffering

    Ozempic and the Gospel of Suffering

    In his Washington Post essay “I’m on Ozempic. The Shaming Is Real,” Rick Reilly commits what remains, strangely enough, a minor social transgression: he admits that he loves GLP-1 drugs.

    Why wouldn’t he?

    They work.

    In three months, Reilly has lost twenty-two pounds. More importantly, he has escaped some of the relentless mental negotiations surrounding food—the calculations, cravings, promises, rationalizations, and internal committee meetings that can turn eating into a second occupation.

    You might expect people to congratulate him.

    Instead, they accuse him of cheating.

    Just exercise more, they tell him.

    Stop eating sugar.

    Use some willpower.

    In other words, please return to the traditional weight-loss program in which you spend every waking hour negotiating with a muffin.

    Reilly’s response is straightforward: Why is using effective technology considered cheating?

    Modern life is essentially one long conspiracy against doing things the hard way. We take statins to lower cholesterol. We use GPS rather than unfolding a map across the steering wheel while hurtling down the freeway. We undergo cataract surgery rather than accepting that God apparently wants the menu blurry. We use calculators, dishwashers, hearing aids, blood-pressure medication, cruise control, anesthesia, and increasingly cars capable of performing some of the driving themselves.

    Nobody emerges from surgery and announces, “Frankly, I think anesthesia was cheating.”

    Yet GLP-1 drugs somehow violate an ancient moral code.

    Even people taking them often behave like members of a secret society. At parties, Reilly says, people approach him and whisper that they’re on them too. Apparently admitting that you take a medication that helps control appetite now requires the discretion formerly reserved for revealing an affair with the tennis instructor.

    Why the embarrassment?

    Because body weight occupies a peculiar territory between medicine and morality. We don’t merely want people to lose weight. We want them to have earned the weight loss through visible suffering.

    Sweat.

    Hunger.

    Broccoli.

    Repentance.

    The acceptable thinner person must emerge from the wilderness carrying a food scale and a battered pair of running shoes.

    Tell people you lost thirty pounds by waking at five every morning, eating boiled chicken breasts, rejecting birthday cake, and performing burpees until your vision blurred, and they admire your discipline.

    Tell them a weekly injection quieted your appetite and suddenly an ethics committee needs to be convened.

    Reilly rejects the accusation that he lacks willpower. His problem, he argues, isn’t simply willpower. It’s time. Managing food can consume enormous amounts of mental bandwidth: thinking about what to eat, resisting what not to eat, calculating portions, experiencing cravings, compensating with exercise, and then beginning the entire negotiation again several hours later.

    There are only so many hours in a life.

    Why spend them arguing with a cheeseburger?

    Then comes the warning about “Ozempic Face”—the gaunt appearance associated with substantial or rapid weight loss. Reilly’s answer is that he is microdosing, trying to obtain the benefits without racing toward physical extremes. He isn’t attempting to disappear. He wants appetite control without looking as though someone left him overnight in a food dehydrator.

    So what explains the hostility?

    Some of it may indeed be envy. Watching someone obtain with medication what you obtained through years of dietary trench warfare can provoke resentment.

    But envy isn’t enough to explain it.

    Something deeper is operating: the lingering belief that appetite must be conquered through character. Discipline is virtuous precisely because discipline hurts. If technology reduces the struggle, people suspect that the resulting success is somehow counterfeit.

    This is the Moral Suspicion of Easy Weight Loss: when a difficult problem becomes easier to solve, we sometimes distrust the solution precisely because it eliminates the suffering we once considered evidence of virtue.

    There are legitimate questions about GLP-1 drugs—side effects, cost, access, long-term use, appropriate prescribing, and what happens after treatment stops. Those questions deserve serious attention.

    But “You cheated” isn’t a medical argument.

    It’s a moral complaint wearing gym clothes.

    Meanwhile, Reilly has lost the weight. The Food Noise has diminished. He has recovered mental territory previously occupied by appetite and negotiation.

    And he has no intention of surrendering it merely because someone else believes virtue should burn more calories.

  • Your Life Depends on Widening the Rest Stop Gap 

    Your Life Depends on Widening the Rest Stop Gap 

    I need to revisit the Bathroom-Proximity Principle of Retirement.

    The principle proposes that employment functions like a distant rest stop, maintaining a psychologically useful distance between you and your mortality. As long as work remains ahead of you—classes to teach, papers to grade, meetings to endure, students to advise—your body receives a reassuring message: the trip is still underway. We have miles to go. Maintain operations.

    Then you retire.

    The rest stop appears.

    Anyone who has driven the I-5 with a full bladder understands the phenomenon. For forty miles you are fine. There is pressure, certainly, but nothing a mature adult cannot handle. Then you see the sign:

    REST AREA — 2 MILES.

    Instantly, your bladder declares DEFCON 1.

    Nothing physiological has changed in the previous four seconds. What has changed is proximity. The body has received permission to stop holding itself together.

    The Bathroom-Proximity Principle proposes—without the slightest concern for medical peer review—that retirement can produce a similar effect. For decades, employment kept the metaphysical rest stop somewhere beyond the horizon. Then you announce your retirement, clear out your office, receive several congratulatory emails, and suddenly the sign appears beside the highway.

    REST AREA — NEXT EXIT.

    Your body looks at the sign and begins shutting down departments.

    The knees reduce operating hours. The lower back announces a staffing shortage. The prostate initiates a major infrastructure project. The brain begins moving nouns into off-site storage.

    But I now realize that the Bathroom-Proximity Principle contains a serious flaw.

    It assumes helplessness.

    Knowing that retirement can trigger an acute awareness of mortality does not mean you must surrender to it. You can create distance between yourself and the rest stop again.

    You can create The Rest Stop Gap.

    The Rest Stop Gap is the deliberate distance you maintain between retirement and physical, intellectual, and social decline. Employment once created much of this distance automatically. Retirement does not. Therefore, you must manufacture the gap yourself.

    You must keep telling your body and brain:

    We are not there yet.

    There is work to do.

    I contemplated this recently while suffering on my Schwinn Airdyne.

    The Airdyne is technically classified as an exercise bicycle, although this description seems unnecessarily charitable. It is better understood as a medieval torture apparatus that happens to contain a seat. You pedal furiously while simultaneously pushing and pulling two large handles, thereby ensuring that no major muscle group feels excluded from the proceedings. Your quadriceps burn. Your shoulders complain. Your lungs begin drafting a formal letter to management.

    After forty-five minutes, the machine no longer feels like exercise equipment. It feels personal.

    Yet this suffering has a purpose.

    The objective is not to destroy yourself. At my age, crawling away from an exercise bicycle and spending the remainder of the afternoon convalescing beneath a blanket is not evidence of fitness. It is evidence of poor judgment.

    Nor is the objective to become lax.

    The goal is to find the edge.

    You work hard enough that the body must respond, adapt, strengthen, and remain useful. But you stop before productive stress becomes demolition. Don’t retreat ten feet behind the line. Don’t charge heroically across it and collapse on the other side.

    Walk to the edge.

    Learn where it is.

    Make friends with it.

    This physical challenge creates part of the Rest Stop Gap because it sends an unmistakable message to the organism: nobody is closing this facility. Tomorrow these muscles may be needed again.

    But exercise alone isn’t enough.

    This leads to The Three-Pillar Vitality Principle: maintaining the Rest Stop Gap requires continuing demands upon three parts of yourself—the physical, intellectual, and social.

    The first pillar is physical challenge.

    Move. Walk. Lift. Pedal. Stretch. Give your body difficult but reasonable work. Remind your muscles, bones, heart, and lungs that retirement is a change in employment status, not a liquidation sale.

    The second pillar is intellectual challenge.

    Read difficult books. Write. Study. Learn something unfamiliar. Develop projects that refuse to resolve themselves without sustained attention. Give your brain problems sufficiently demanding that it cannot reasonably conclude its services are no longer required.

    The third pillar is social engagement.

    This may be the easiest pillar to underestimate. Employment supplied human contact whether you wanted it or not. Students appeared. Colleagues knocked on the door. Meetings materialized with malignant regularity. Retirement removes much of this involuntary social infrastructure. If you do nothing to replace it, days can become strangely frictionless.

    You need people.

    Not merely text messages. Not merely podcasts. Not merely the reassuring illusion of companionship provided by listening to two strangers discuss politics through earbuds.

    Actual people.

    This is why the Walking Companion Principle matters. Find someone. Put on shoes. Walk. Talk. Show up again. A regular walking companion performs the remarkable trick of strengthening two pillars simultaneously: physical and social.

    Maintain all three pillars and you widen the Rest Stop Gap.

    Neglect them and you risk entering what might be called the Retirement Larval State.

    The Retirement Larval State does not initially feel terrible. That’s precisely the problem.

    You wake without an alarm. Excellent.

    You remain in your pajamas until eleven. Why not?

    Lunch becomes a Hot Pocket because technically it contains several food groups.

    You wander into the living room holding the remote control with the practiced grip of an orthopedic surgeon holding a scalpel. Netflix asks whether you’re still watching.

    Of course you’re still watching.

    What else would you be doing?

    Gradually, the boundaries of life contract. The workout disappears. Difficult books become strangely exhausting. Invitations seem inconvenient. The house becomes the habitat. The recliner develops gravitational properties.

    And the frightening part is that none of this feels quite as bad as you were warned.

    Decay can be comfortable.

    That’s why it is dangerous.

    The larval retiree does not wake one morning and announce, “Today I shall begin my physical, intellectual, and social deterioration.” He simply removes one demand after another until nothing remains that requires very much of him.

    The rest stop gets closer.

    The Three-Pillar Vitality Principle offers a different model of retirement. You no longer have to work for an employer, but you must continue placing intelligent demands upon yourself. Your body needs something difficult to do. Your mind needs something difficult to solve. Your social self needs people who expect you to appear.

    The point is not to manufacture another job and call it retirement. Nor is it to fill every hour with frantic activity because silence reminds you that you are mortal.

    The objective is simpler.

    Keep enough road between yourself and the rest stop.

    Exercise.

    Think.

    Connect.

    Then get up tomorrow and do it again.

    The sign will eventually appear. It appears for everyone.

    There is no reason to take the next exit.

  • The Cruelty of Retirement No One Warned You About

    The Cruelty of Retirement No One Warned You About

    Growing old and planning your retirement provide a cruel education in the merciless nature of bureaucracy. You spend forty years imagining retirement as an escape from work, only to discover that before you’re permitted to stop working, you must complete an enormous amount of additional work.

    Most of it involves paperwork.

    Except we don’t call it paperwork anymore because there is no paper. Paper would be too easy. Paper sits obediently on a table. You can hold it in your hands, read it, scribble notes in the margins, and return to page one whenever you get confused. Modern bureaucracy has improved upon this primitive system by replacing paper with websites, portals, passwords, security questions, verification codes, drop-down menus, disappearing screens, and online forms that occasionally erase everything you’ve entered because you spent too long looking for your Social Security number.

    This technological revolution arrives at precisely the right moment in your life: when your eyes are tired, your patience is gone, and your facility with navigating government websites is approaching that of a manatee attempting to operate an ATM.

    No matter. The gauntlet begins.

    First, Medicare.

    You arrive at the Medicare website expecting to encounter something resembling a large button that says START HERE.

    Instead, you are greeted by photographs of radiant senior citizens experiencing levels of happiness rarely observed outside pharmaceutical advertisements. Silver-haired couples stroll along beaches. Healthy retirees embrace grandchildren. Everyone appears recently moisturized. Nobody is squinting at a computer monitor wondering whether he needs to fill out Form B.

    Meanwhile, the website offers you an enormous quantity of information. There are links explaining insurance packages. Links answering frequently asked questions. Links explaining other links. You can learn almost anything you want about Medicare except the answer to the one primitive question pounding inside your skull:

    Where the hell do I start?

    You become a rat in a digital maze.

    Perhaps you need Form B. Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you need it eventually but not now. Perhaps filling it out now will create a problem later. Make sure you have all your information handy, although you’re not entirely sure what “all your information” means until the website requests a number you’ve never heard of that apparently governs your destiny.

    There is no benevolent angel sitting beside you saying, “You’re doing fine. Click that button.”

    There is just you, growing visibly older in the blue light of your monitor while a seventy-two-year-old stock-photo model smiles at you from a sailboat.

    I call this Portal Despair: the distinctive psychological state produced by staring at a beautifully designed institutional website containing enormous quantities of information but no obvious answer to the question, Where do I start?

    The happier the people on the website appear, the worse Portal Despair becomes.

    Once Medicare has softened you up, you move on to CalPERS and CalSTRS.

    Years ago, before our Human Resources coordinator retired during COVID, she warned me that there was some peculiar rule governing the timing of retirement when CalPERS and CalSTRS are involved. The dates have to align correctly. There is a sequence. Something has to happen before something else happens.

    I don’t remember the details.

    I only remember receiving the distinct impression that if I retire on the wrong Tuesday, my pension will turn into a pumpkin.

    So now I must contact the new HR person and ask her to reconstruct this ancient knowledge. My goal is to get CalPERS and CalSTRS working together in perfect harmony so that my retirement proceeds like a smooth stone skipping across a still lake.

    I fully expect instead to discover that one agency requires a document from the other agency, which cannot produce that document until the first agency verifies that I have requested it.

    Then comes health insurance.

    Because I’m leaving my employer’s health plan and moving onto my wife’s, her employer requires official documentation showing that she has “lost coverage.”

    Lost coverage.

    The phrase sounds apocalyptic. It suggests that our family has been cast onto the American healthcare tundra wearing burlap sacks and searching the horizon for a free clinic.

    We haven’t lost anything. We’re changing insurance.

    But the bureaucracy has declared this a loss, and therefore someone must produce an official document certifying the loss. My wife will then present this sacred parchment to her employer, which will presumably inspect the seal, consult the oracle, and permit us to purchase health insurance through her job.

    Then we have to investigate dental and vision coverage. My wife reports that the dental insurance offered through her employer sucks, a technical assessment I trust completely. Perhaps we should continue purchasing dental and vision coverage through my former employer. Perhaps not.

    And although her job will keep us with Kaiser, we don’t yet know exactly what version of Kaiser we’re getting. Perhaps it will be essentially the same. Perhaps it will be Kaiser Lite, with higher copays and subtle degradations that reveal themselves only after you’re sitting in an examination room wearing a paper gown.

    You won’t know until you’re inside the belly of the beast.

    Good luck.

    Then there’s the pension.

    A CalSTRS representative tells you the amount you’ll receive every month, and for approximately eleven seconds you feel rich.

    Do not enjoy those eleven seconds.

    That number is gross income.

    Taxes still exist.

    The government, having spent decades taxing your salary, does not shake your hand at retirement and say, “You’ve done enough. Keep the rest.”

    So when the pension representative gives you that beautiful monthly number, mentally shrink it immediately. Do not start pricing Viking cruises. Do not buy a Porsche. Do not inform your children that Daddy has entered the leisure class.

    You’re not rich.

    You’re simply receiving taxable income while wearing sweatpants.

    By this point you begin to believe you’re making progress. You’ve completed several forms. You’ve spoken to HR. You’ve created accounts. You’ve written down passwords. Somewhere in the distance, you think you can see light.

    You are delusional.

    There are more forms.

    Forms beget forms.

    One form requires an attachment. The attachment requires certification. The certification requires proof. The proof must come from another institution, which requires you to complete another form before it will provide the proof required by the first form.

    Eventually there are subforms attached to larger forms and subforms attached to the subforms. You begin with the innocent objective of changing your health insurance and find yourself three weeks later downloading a PDF called “Verification of Qualifying Event Supporting Documentation Supplemental Certification.”

    Chefs have an expression for reaching this condition:

    You’re in the weeds.

    I prefer Form Metastasis: the tendency of one bureaucratic form to generate additional forms, certifications, attachments, proofs, and follow-up requests. Form A requires Form B. Form B requires verification from Institution C. Institution C cannot provide verification until Institution D processes Form E.

    Nobody designed the entire system.

    That’s what makes it terrifying.

    I could have retired three years ago.

    I didn’t.

    You want to know one reason?

    I hate paperwork.

    I hate paperwork with such intensity that I would rather get dressed in the morning, drive to work, attend tedious meetings, answer emails, listen to administrators explain exciting new initiatives, and grade thousands of student assignments every year than confront the administrative machinery required to stop doing those things.

    Work, at least, I understand.

    Retirement requires training.

    But I’ve finally made the decision. I’ll be sixty-five in a couple of months. I’m retiring.

    Except “retiring” now strikes me as a fraudulent description of what is happening.

    I’m not retiring.

    I’ve changed jobs.

    I used to be a college instructor. Now I am an unpaid administrative assistant assigned exclusively to the Jeffrey McMahon account.

    My responsibilities include Medicare enrollment, pension coordination, health-insurance transitions, dental and vision decisions, tax withholding, beneficiary elections, document retrieval, password management, deadline compliance, and maintaining good standing with an assortment of institutions that possess the power to interfere with my money or healthcare.

    There will be no salary.

    There will be no vacation.

    There will be no administrative assistant because I am the administrative assistant.

    This is Bureaucratic Retirement Capture: the process by which institutions ostensibly designed to facilitate your retirement instead colonize your time and attention. You leave your employer expecting liberation from schedules and administrative obligations, only to discover that Medicare, pension systems, insurance companies, tax agencies, and benefits departments have inherited you.

    Which brings me to the cruelest discovery of all.

    The Retirement Paradox.

    Leaving the workforce requires taking on another job: the administration of leaving the workforce.

    Instead of meetings and grading, you get Medicare enrollment, CalSTRS, CalPERS, HR documentation, health-insurance transitions, dental and vision decisions, tax withholding, beneficiary elections, deadlines, passwords, portals, forms, subforms, supplemental forms, and forms verifying that you have completed other forms.

    For decades, I imagined retirement as a great exhalation. I would finish my final semester, turn in my grades, clean out my office, drive home, and feel the enormous machinery of employment finally release me.

    Instead, the machinery has merely transferred me to another department.

    How stupid am I?

    Why didn’t I just keep working?

    It would have been so much easier.

  • The Discipline Ceiling

    The Discipline Ceiling

    When I followed baseball in the 1970s, certain teams seemed to have permanent reservations in the cellar. The Milwaukee Brewers. The San Diego Padres. The Washington Senators. I didn’t need to study the standings. I knew where to find them.

    At the bottom.

    Eventually, losing ceased to seem like a temporary condition and became a form of civic identity. Other teams competed for pennants. These teams competed for mathematical elimination sometime around Memorial Day. Their fans could open the sports page in August without anxiety. There would be Milwaukee, comfortably settled into the basement, unpacking boxes and hanging pictures on the walls.

    This is roughly my relationship with 230 pounds.

    For seven years, I have tried to break through that number and descend toward my promised land of 210. Occasionally I approach the border. I eat well. I exercise. I begin imagining myself entering the exotic kingdom of the 220s.

    Then 230 appears at the checkpoint.

    Not so fast.

    At this point, 230 doesn’t merely exist. It has developed a personality. It flexes its biceps. It smokes a cigar. It leans against the clubhouse wall with the serene confidence of a last-place team holding a twenty-game lead over its nearest competitor.

    Go ahead.

    Try something.

    I’ll be here.

    And it is.

    I eat mostly whole foods. In the morning, steel-cut oats. Later, a protein-heavy salad. After my nap, Greek yogurt. Dinner is protein and vegetables. I monitor portions. I exercise. I generally keep my calories below 2,500.

    Then I step on the scale.

    230.

    It’s like opening the sports page in 1974.

    Milwaukee: last place.

    Of course.

    At this point, the fitness tribunals will convene.

    “You’re eating too much.”

    Fine.

    “Reduce your calories.”

    I have.

    “Reduce them more.”

    And here we arrive at The Discipline Ceiling: the point at which a person is technically capable of imposing additional restrictions upon himself but decides that the marginal improvement isn’t worth making everyday life more miserable.

    This distinction matters because whenever weight loss stalls, the discussion inevitably becomes moral.

    You lack discipline.

    You don’t want it badly enough.

    You’re making excuses.

    Really?

    Come spend a week with me.

    Enjoy the steel-cut oats.

    Have another salad.

    Marvel as I spoon Greek yogurt into my mouth for approximately the ten-thousandth time.

    Then join me for dinner, where once again protein and vegetables await like two elderly relatives who have been sitting in the same chairs since the Eisenhower administration.

    I have discipline.

    What I don’t have is any interest in escalating it indefinitely.

    Could I eat 1,900 calories a day?

    Probably.

    Could I start intermittent fasting?

    Certainly.

    Could I go to bed hungry, wake up hungry, drink black coffee while contemplating mortality, and spend the afternoon fantasizing about a baked potato?

    Absolutely.

    I could probably reach 210 if I were willing to make weight loss the organizing principle of my existence.

    But I’m not.

    That’s my Discipline Ceiling.

    The modern optimization culture has difficulty accepting such a ceiling because its governing philosophy is that every measurable human characteristic should be improved until either perfection or death intervenes.

    Weight too high?

    Eat less.

    Still too high?

    Eat less than that.

    Hungry?

    Excellent. The program is working.

    Miserable?

    Even better. Misery demonstrates commitment.

    Soon enough you’re weighing blueberries on a digital scale and wondering whether licking the spoon requires an entry in MyFitnessPal.

    At some point, I decline.

    This doesn’t mean I’ve discovered that calories don’t matter or that my body has repealed the laws of thermodynamics. If I consistently ate substantially less, I would almost certainly lose additional weight.

    The question isn’t whether I can impose more discipline.

    The question is how much of my remaining life I’m willing to surrender to it.

    There is always another restriction available.

    Skip breakfast.

    Eliminate starch.

    Reduce dinner.

    No food after six.

    Fast sixteen hours.

    Fast eighteen.

    Count almonds.

    Fear bananas.

    Treat a tablespoon of peanut butter like an uncontrolled substance.

    Eventually you can become so disciplined that you spend your entire day thinking about the food you’re heroically not eating.

    No thanks.

    I would still like to weigh 210. I would enjoy seeing 225, then 220, then perhaps one glorious morning stepping onto the scale and seeing a number beginning with 21.

    But there are terms.

    I’ll eat nutritious food. I’ll control my portions. I’ll exercise. I’ll tolerate some hunger. I’ll maintain a degree of dietary monotony that would make a monastery cafeteria look like the Bellagio buffet.

    But I will not turn eating into punishment.

    That is the ceiling.

    Perhaps this means I’ll remain at 230.

    Perhaps 230 is my Milwaukee Brewers.

    If so, I’ll continue trying to climb out of the cellar—but I’m not going to set fire to the clubhouse to prove how badly I want the pennant.

    There is discipline.

    And then there is making your entire life kneel before a number on a bathroom scale.

    I’ve reached the ceiling.

    I’m not climbing through it.