Third Act With Pattie

Category: ♀ ♂ Retirement: Now We’re Both Home

The adventures, surprises, and occasional chaos that happen when two people retire and suddenly spend every day together.

  • The Return of Leg Shaving

    The Return of Leg Shaving

    Today I shaved my legs for the first time since last August.

    Not because I’m lazy.

    Well.

    Not entirely because I’m lazy.

    The real reason is that chemotherapy comes with both curses and blessings.

    One of the blessings?

    No leg hair.

    For ten glorious months, I have not shaved my legs.

    Not once.

    No balancing on one foot in a slippery shower. No discovering halfway through that the razor is dull. No realizing I somehow missed an entire stripe down the back of one calf.

    Nothing.

    Just smooth legs and one less thing on my list.

    Of course, the curse is that chemotherapy doesn’t stop at your legs.

    It takes all the hair.

    And while there are certainly parts of that experience I do not recommend, there was something oddly satisfying about crossing “shave legs” off my to-do list for ten straight months.

    At some point during treatment, I stopped even thinking about it.

    Then recovery happened.

    Slowly.

    Quietly.

    The fuzz on my head started coming back.

    The eyebrows that had apparently quit without notice started showing up for work again.

    The eyelashes decided they might stick around after all.

    (As much as any eyelashes can after surviving the unforgivable tweeze craze of the 1970s.)

    Every little bit of regrowth felt like a victory.

    Proof that my body was finding its way home.

    And I was grateful for every bit of it.

    Until this morning.

    This morning I looked down in the shower and thought:

    “Well, apparently we’ve brought back the leg hair.”

    Now, to be fair, I should probably be celebrating.

    This is evidence of healing.

    Recovery.

    Progress.

    The return of normal bodily functions.

    But instead, I found myself standing there with a razor thinking:

    “Couldn’t we have left this one behind?”

    Then I dug my razor out of the back of the bathroom drawer and actually stopped and stared at it.

    The blade looked exactly the same as it had ten months ago.

    Which led to an important scientific question:

    Does a razor get dull just sitting there?

    Because if so, this one should have been worn slap out by now.

    Then I remembered.

    I had put that blade on the day my port was installed.

    Not the week before.

    Not sometime that month.

    The actual day.

    And suddenly I wasn’t looking at a razor anymore.

    I was looking at a timestamp.

    Back then, I had no idea how many doctor’s appointments, PET scans, infusions, steroids, naps, night sweats, and worried conversations stood between that shower and this one.

    If you had told me that morning that the next time I used that razor I would be cancer-free and standing in my shower complaining about leg hair, I would have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

    Then there was the shaving cream.

    The good shaving cream.

    The extra-foamy, sensitive-skin, smells-really-good shaving cream.

    The can was almost empty.

    Which raises another question.

    Does shaving cream evaporate?

    Or has someone in this house been secretly using my expensive shaving cream while I wasn’t paying attention?

    I’m not naming names.

    But there are only two people who live here, and one of them is a 6-foot-7 semi-retired male.

    The evidence seems compelling.

    Anyway.

    The shaving is done.

    The legs are smooth.

    The era of effortless maintenance appears to be over.

    And that got me wondering.

    Is this a thing for men who have gone through chemo, too?

    Because back in my day—and yes, I am officially old enough to say that—a man shaved his face and called it good.

    That was the entire grooming plan.

    Nowadays it seems like the only thing some men don’t shave is their face.

    So I’m curious.

    Men who have been through chemo, was there any hair you were perfectly happy to lose?

    Any hair you were relieved to see return?

    Or maybe more importantly…

    Was there any hair that came back and made you think:

    “Seriously? Of all the things that could have stayed gone forever, you picked THIS?”

    Because ladies, let’s not pretend we don’t have opinions here, too.

    By a certain age, some hair starts showing up in places nobody ordered it from.

    And it arrives with the confidence of a long-awaited guest.

    One day you’re minding your own business.

    The next day you’re standing in front of a magnifying mirror wondering how a single chin hair managed to grow three inches overnight without your knowledge.

    The human body is a mystery.

    Recovery is a mystery.

    And apparently hair is determined to remind us who’s really in charge.

    So today I shaved my legs for the first time in ten months.

    It wasn’t particularly exciting.

    It wasn’t especially meaningful.

    But it was one of those ordinary little moments that quietly reminded me how far I’ve come.

    Ten months ago, I was sitting in chemo.

    Today, I’m complaining about shaving my legs.

    I’ll take that trade every single time.

    Even if the leg hair is making a comeback tour that absolutely nobody requested.

    -Pattie

  • The Back Rows

    The Back Rows

    There are certain moments in loving a child that sit quietly in your chest for a long time afterward.

    Watching Liddle S’kiddle graduate high school was one of them.

    We are unbelievably proud of her.
    Proud of the hard work.
    Proud of the discipline.
    Proud of the long nights and early mornings and all the ordinary days that somehow added up to this extraordinary milestone.

    She graduated with honors, and she earned every bit of it.

    As the ceremony began, the honor graduates and graduates with distinction were seated in the front rows, decorated in stoles and regalia that reflected years of academic achievement. They were recognized and applauded, rightly so, for what they had accomplished.

    And their families cheered with the kind of joy that only comes from watching someone you love achieve something they worked hard for.

    We clapped proudly right along with them.

    But somewhere in the middle of the ceremony, my eyes kept drifting to the back rows.

    The students whose victories were less decorated, but no less hard-won.
    The ones the ceremony said less about…
    but whose stories may have required just as much strength.

    And I found myself wondering about them.

    How many had worked late shifts after school?
    How many had gone home carrying burdens nobody else could see?
    How many had walked through heartbreak, anxiety, loss, instability, exhaustion, or responsibilities far beyond their years?
    How many had simply fought like hell just to cross that stage?

    Several had earned scholarships.
    Many are headed to college.
    Others are entering trades, jobs, military service, or lives that will require just as much courage and determination as any university classroom.

    And when their names were called, I noticed something else.

    Their families often cheered the loudest.

    Not because they loved their children more.
    But maybe because they understood, in a deeply personal way,

    just how hard-won that diploma really was.

    Because sometimes graduating with honors is the miracle.

    And sometimes graduating at all is.

    Both deserve applause.

    And so, we celebrate all of them.
    The scholars.
    The overcomers.
    The exhausted kids who kept going anyway.
    The students who succeeded publicly and the ones who succeeded quietly.

    The ones in the front rows.
    The ones in the back.

    The graduates whose accomplishments were announced to the room…
    and the graduates whose strength may have only been fully understood by the people cheering hardest for them.

    Because every student who crossed that stage carried a story.
    And every single one deserved their moment when their name was called.

    Maybe that is what I will remember most about graduation night.

    Not just the honors and distinctions.
    But the reminder that perseverance does not always wear decorative cords.

    Sometimes it simply wears a cap and gown
    and keeps going anyway.

    -Pattie

  • Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    As you know, hubby and I went away for a long weekend a few weeks ago . We had such a wonderful time with great friends.

    So this is not about that.

    What this is about…

    Is slightly alarming.

    Have you ever thought about packing to go on a trip?

    Of course you have.

    If you’ve ever gone anywhere overnight, you’ve thought about what to pack.

    For decades I have filled my suitcase – ok suitcases – with at least two outfits for each day.

    Because a girl never really knows who she is going to be on vacation.

    Will I feel all frilly and dressy?

    Will I want to give casual but effortlessly put together?

    Will I suddenly become someone who wears linen?

    Who knows?

    And of course there were matching undergarments for each outfit.

    And shoes

    Matching shoes.  Beautiful shoes.

    The kind clearly designed by people who hate women.

    And selfie worthy accessories:

    Jewelry, big colorful matching sunglasses, belts, coordinated lipsticks.

    And one wrinkled hoodie with loose soft lounge pants…

    for emotion support or… hangover recovery.

    And hubby packed the same way.  

    Not with the same precision and purpose,

    obviously.

    But still:

    this shirt goes with those pants,

    that require this coordinated belt,

    those shoes

    one dressy, one casual, because he is, after all, a man —

    And matching socks.

    Repeat for every day.

    Then add backup options.

    Back then we packed for:

    Possibilities,

    Aesthetics,

    Bad decisions,

    And absolutely nothing related to comfort.

    Now that we are both in our sixties and “semi-retired”…

    I’ve noticed a shift…

    A seismic shift.

    No more stylin’ and profilin.’

    No more “who will I be today?”

    No more shoes specifically designed for maximum discomfort.

    These days?

     Comfort is the new cute.

    And honestly…

    I regret nothing.

    At some point in life vacations became less about fearless adventure

    And more about sustainable adventure…

    with adequate support.

    Now we travel with:

    comfortable clothes,

    comfortable shoes,

    and one slightly dressier outfit that still has to work with comfortable shoes.

    Somewhere along the way, our luggage stopped giving vacation night life…

    and started giving disaster preparedness training.

    An entire section of each suitcase is dedicated to supplements:

    Magnesium,

    Vitamin C,

    Vitamins D and K
    (apparently they travel better together),

    this for hair,

    that for joints,

    and multiple items devoted to what can only be described as “digestive negotiations.”

    Mine are sorted into tiny, labeled baggies, because apparently my memory occasionally reboots without warning.

    Hubby’s are organized in one of those giant round pill dispensers that looks less like vacation prep and more like a weeklong hostage situation. 

    And of course, acetaminophen.   Lots of acetaminophen in its own family-sized bottle.

    And somehow…

    despite all of this preparation…

    one of us still forgot their extra emergency underwear.

    Apparently even disaster preparedness has its limits.

    However, we did remember:

    special pillows,

    travel socks,

    comfortable shoes,

    and enough supplements to stabilize a small rural community. 

    At that point, looking at our luggage, I realized we had not packed for a four-day weekend.

    We packed like settlers crossing dangerous territory. 

    Just one digestive issue away from circling the wagons.

    What is the deal with old-er people and their special pillows?

    There was a time in my life when I could sleep anywhere:

    on the floor,

    squeezed two  to a sofa,

    half hanging off a motel bed,

    or sitting upright in a car with one shoe in my lap (don’t ask).  

    Now?

    If my neck angle is wrong for six minutes, I need a massage.

    And the socks.

    Why do we now have travel-specific socks?

    Not cute socks.

    Not fashionable socks.

    Supportive socks.

    Socks engineered by orthopedic scientists and..

    probably Lucifer.

    Honestly, the entire trip could collapse into chaos, but if hubby’s feet and ankles feel supported, the man becomes nearly indestructible.

    I think that’s how you know you’re getting older.

    You stop packing for possibilities…

    and start packing for recovery.

    Not because the adventure is over.

    Just because you’d like to enjoy it when you get there.

    So if you’ve started noticing your own packing evolution…

    If you now pack for inflammation instead of night life…

    If your suitcase contains enough supplements to alarm TSA…

    Welcome to The Third Act.

    Pull up a chair.

    But not one that’s too low to the ground.

    -Pattie

    If you’re enjoying these stories from my Third Act — the adventures, the chaos, the questionable decisions, and apparently now… the orthopedic travel phase 😂 — I’d love for you to subscribe. (You can do that now without registering for WordPress.)

    And if you already travel with your own pillow or a suspicious number of supplements…

    trust me.

    You’re among friends.

  • Not Today Gravity

    Not Today Gravity

    Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.

    Yes, I know.

    We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”

    So naturally…
    we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.

    Solid plan. No notes.

    It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.

    Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.

    Not metaphorically.

    Physically.
    Spectacularly.
    With range.

    I am what you might call… an expert faller.

    Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.

    I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
    And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.

    Olympic-level.

    Gold medal. No question.

    Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.

    I am under five feet tall.
    A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.

    Short arms.
    Tiny hands.
    Little bitty feet.

    Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.

    And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”

    And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.

    So essentially…

    I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.

    So the falling?

    Not a phase.
    A lifestyle.

    My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.

    I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.

    My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.

    As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:

    “Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”

    I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.

    I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.

    Injury report:
    One bruised ego. No physical damage.

    Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.

    Then there was the pregnancy fall.

    Very pregnant.
    Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.

    No slippery floor.
    No misstep.
    No warning.

    Just… boom.

    Flat on my backside.

    A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.

    And without missing a beat, I told them:

    “The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”

    That child stayed put for three more weeks.

    Coincidence?
    I think not.

    And so it went.

    Decades of falls.

    Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.

    Didn’t matter.

    Gravity and I have a relationship.

    At some point, I stopped fighting it.

    I started leaning into the fall—literally.

    Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.

    Smile like I meant to do that.

    By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.

    Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.

    Or the chemo.

    Or “just being careful.”

    Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?

    No.

    I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.

    My last official fall was two months ago.

    Senior Walk at prom.

    Sidewalk.
    Crowd of parents.
    Maximum audience.

    One minute I’m walking…
    the next minute I’m not.

    Down.

    Concrete.

    Hands and knees took the hit.

    No injuries.

    Absolute perfection.

    Gold medal performance.

    And then…

    today happened.

    We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.

    Cute shops.
    People everywhere.
    Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.

    I was being careful. Focused. Aware.

    I saw it.

    A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.

    At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.

    So I told myself:
    “Stop. Look at the flowers.”

    And my brain said:
    “Great idea.”

    And my feet said:
    “We’re gonna keep going.”

    I walked directly into the fire hydrant.

    Full commitment. No hesitation.

    Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.

    And then…

    something miraculous happened.

    I teetered. I rocked.

    Time slowed.

    I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.

    And then…

    I DID NOT FALL.

    At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.

    And somehow…

    I stuck the landing. Nailed it.

    For the first time in sixty-nine years…

    I almost fell—

    and didn’t.

    Now, I could tell you this is about balance.

    Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.

    But let’s not get carried away.

    I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.

    Barefoot shoes.

    Not wisdom.
    Not evolution.
    Not inner peace.

    Footwear.

    So here’s what I know:

    I have spent a lifetime falling.

    Getting up.
    Laughing it off.
    Pretending I meant to do that.

    But today?

    I didn’t fall.

    Which means one of two things:

    Either I have finally evolved…

    or this is just the setup
    for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
    of my entire life.

    Honestly?

    Based on my track record…

    I’d stay tuned.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:

    The fall in Nashville.
    The fall in Key West.
    The fall in the airport.
    The fall in—well, everywhere.

    I told him I’m writing a blog.

    Not War and Peace.

    Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.

  • I Came. I Socialized. Everyone Else Was Thriving. I Executed The Restroom Dodge.

    I’m writing this while I’m supposed to be socializing.

    Which, if you think about it, is a strong indicator of how this evening is going… for me.

    For everyone else?

    Oh, they are thriving.

    Hubby included.

    Radiant. Engaged. Positively buoyant in a sea of handshakes and conversation.

    Meanwhile, I am over here realizing six months on the couch have left my knees woefully undertrained.

    Hubby and I are at the grand opening of a new store for the company he retired from.

    And by “retired” I mean he retired…and then, almost immediately, got himself rehired in a new role — working mostly from home — in what we are calling “semi-retirement.” 

    Which, at the time, felt like a great idea. 

    Probably because it was mine.

    I would like to formally withdraw my support.

    Immediately.

    Now—to be fair—this is a fantastic event.

    Beautiful setup. Great turnout. Everyone looks genuinely happy to be here.

    People are reconnecting, laughing, hugging, networking like professionals.

    This is their Super Bowl.

    As a spouse, I am technically a team member.

    A very underperforming one.

    There are approximately 250 people here. Possibly more. They seem to be multiplying—but in a festive, successful way.

    There are also—conservatively—three different types of sound happening at the same time:

    A band outside
    Something with a microphone inside
    And a mysterious third source that sounds like a DJ who refuses to be ignored

    Four, if you count the tinnitus ringing in both ears.

    For me, it’s less “grand opening gala” and more “auditory Hunger Games.”

    Everyone else? Loving it.
    Swaying. Smiling. Fully immersed.

    Me? Trying to figure out which direction sound is coming from so I can nod appropriately.

    Now, to be clear, I like socializing.

    I like the quick hello.
    The warm smile.
    The light joke.
    The graceful exit before the long cousin story begins.

    That’s where I shine.

    I am a social sprinter.

    That is my lane.

    And for the first 45 minutes?

    I was spectacular.

    Gold medal spectacular.

    But this event is not built for social sprinters.

    This is a marathon crowd.

    And my husband—who is younger, more energetic, and apparently powered by human interaction—is absolutely in his element.

    At one point, I watched him effortlessly transition from one conversation to the next like a social ninja.

    Meanwhile, I nodded and laughed at something that may or may not have been directed at me.

    Confidence is key in these situations.

    It was around that moment I realized something important about myself:

    I do not like standing for extended periods of time.

    Not sure I ever did.

    I’m going to go ahead and blame that on my chemo couch phase…

    followed by my sporadic gym phase…

    which I am absolutely still blaming on the chemo. 

    That feels fair.

    Somewhere around the one hour and 45 minute mark — purely by coincidence — my legs began filing formal complaints.

    Not subtle ones.

    Official documentation.

    So I did what any reasonable, slightly older, socially overwhelmed adult would do.

    I executed the classic maneuver:

    The Restroom Dodge.

    I made my way with purpose—focused, determined, slightly dramatically— toward the universal sanctuary.

    But instead of going in…

    I found a chair.

    A glorious, unexpected, cushioned chair.

    And I sat.

    Not a polite sit.

    A full, committed, “this is my home now” sit.

    From this chair, I’ve discovered something important:

    For me, watching people socialize…

    is far more enjoyable than participating.

    From my seated throne near the restroom, I can observe:

    The enthusiastic handshakers
    The genuinely engaged listeners
    The “I’ve been trying to exit this conversation for 12 minutes” crowd
    The phone-checkers pretending it’s urgent

    It’s like an indoor nature documentary.

    A happy, successful, well-attended indoor nature documentary.

    And I am the older, slightly cranky narrator who wandered off-script.

    At this point, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll rejoin society.

    Possibly when the music consolidates into a single, identifiable genre — ideally one I recognize.

    Possibly when chairs become more widely available.
    Or possibly when my husband—who I love dearly and blame entirely—comes to find me and escorts me back into the wild.

    Until then…

    I will be here.

    Resting.
    Observing.
    Acknowledging that this is, in fact, a wonderful event…

    …just not my sport.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    Update from the next phase of the evening:

    I am now in the car.

    Shoes off.
    Feet up.
    Dignity fully restored.

    The muffled music from the event is drifting out into the parking lot like a distant reminder of choices I enthusiastically supported earlier and no longer recognize as my own.

    And I am not alone.

    Scattered across nearby vehicles are my people—

    The early leavers.
    The “we showed our face” crowd.
    The socially exhausted.

    We are sitting in quiet solidarity…

    while, just inside, the party continues—lively, joyful, and exactly as it should be.

    And honestly?

    Good for them.

    Truly.

    We’ll be right out here.

    Like civilized adults.

    If you’ve ever smiled, nodded, and quietly planned your escape… you’re going to fit right in here.