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I Confess… I Did This To Myself

Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

I’ve made mistakes before.

Big ones.

But none of them stared me in the face all day.

Okay… I may have pushed my husband to retire.

I did this to myself.

Completely.

I’ve been retired – well, semi-retired – for over a year now.

By semi-retired, I mean I work from home… in my pajamas… on my own schedule.

It’s a very civilized system.

I earn a little extra money when I feel like it.

And when I don’t feel like it – I simply don’t.

During the last two months of chemo, I took exactly zero assignments.

Turns out chemo brain and legal drafting are not a winning combination.

But overall, I’ve really enjoyed this semi-retired lifestyle (minus the chemo option.)

So much, in fact, that I decided my husband needed to retire too.

He was terribly stressed out.

Which is understandable.

A wife on chemo and a fast-paced, time-draining job he loved would give any man gray hair at an alarming rate.

If the man had hair.

Mine does not.

So in the way that good wives often do, I patiently helped him realize that it was completely his own idea to leave the rat race and come home to enjoy the good life.

And for the first few days?

It was lovely.

I would walk past him sleeping in his chair in the middle of the afternoon and smile.

Look at him, finally resting.

What a thoughtful wife I am.

Then he woke up.

After a few days of rest and observation, he apparently came to the conclusion that I had somehow lost the ability to perform basic household tasks without his expert insight into:

• best practices
• improved efficiency
• and the optimal dishwasher loading strategy

In fairness, he really was just trying to help.

No one asked him to.

But still.

Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

This guidance was provided daily.

Sometimes hourly.

Occasionally continuously.

Clearly, I needed to fix this.

So, being the supportive wife that I am,

I once again helped him arrive at a brilliant idea that was entirely his own.

He needed a different version of semi-retirement.

One where he could apply all those negotiation skills and efficiency strategies somewhere other than my kitchen.

Once he came up with that idea on his own, he really ran with it.

He did research.

He made a proposal.

He negotiated terms.

And just like that, he created a position that allows him to work:

from home
in his pajamas
on his own schedule

What a genius.

He does have to go to the work site one day a week.

And I’m not saying I look forward to those days…

…but I have noticed the coffee tastes better,

the lake looks calmer,

and retirement feels a lot more like mine again.

If you’re still smiling, come back and stay awhile.

Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

–Pattie

The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.
I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

I call myself a sewist.

It sounds respectable.
Capable.
Like someone who makes actual clothing that people wear out in public.

You know –

from fitting the pattern to hemming the garment.

But the truth is…

I don’t make clothes anymore.

Because I hate fitting.

Hemming too –

Which is unfortunate,

because at 4’10”, I have never met a pair of pants that didn’t need hemming.

Not once.
Not even in theory.

So instead, I quilt.

More specifically, I paper piece.

Give me a pile of crooked little scraps,
lines on a piece of paper,
and permission to sew things together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at first glance…

…and I am completely content.

There’s something about it.

The wonky angles.
The unexpected shapes.
The way it all looks slightly chaotic until suddenly — it doesn’t.

Those pieces feed my soul in a way the traditional blocks just don’t.

They’re pretty.
They’re orderly.

But they don’t feed me.

Right now, though, my sewing room is disappearing.

Or at least, it feels that way.

It’s being packed up piece by piece as we get ready to move,
and I have discovered something I probably should have expected:

I cannot pick up a single thing
without going down memory lane.

And at my age, memory lane is not a quick little walk.

It’s more like a slow, winding scenic route with frequent stops.

Very frequent stops.

So for now, there’s not much sewing happening.

But there will be.

I’ll be sharing the process as I reinvent my sewing space in this next chapter —
what stays, what goes, and what finally earns a place in the Third Act.

And in the meantime, I’ll start sharing some of the pieces I’ve made —
the ones with stories stitched into them.

Because every one of them has one.

And apparently…

I have time to tell them now.

Maybe that’s the point of the Third Act –

Finally having the time to take all the wonky pieces

And see how they fit together.

— Pattie

🐾 Sassy says: That room better come back with a proper dog are – including the rug Mama made for me. I do not forget these things.
Quietly Judging…at the No-Judgment Gym

I made a decision.

A grown-up decision.
A responsible, health-oriented decision.

I decided to join the gym.

Let me be very clear about something.

I hate the gym.

The gym and I have a long-standing policy: mutual avoidance.

At best, we coexist on the same planet.

I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman.
I do not look like the gym loves me.
I do not look like I love the gym.

But this is the Third Act.

And in the Third Act, apparently,

we make mature decisions like this.

So I went to the “No Judgment” gym.

Have you ever been there?

Because I can assure you—
people are judging.

Okay, fine.

It was me.

I am people.

That said, there were quite a few seniors there, which helped.

There were also quite a few young people.

And while I was not judging
(I was absolutely observing),

I noticed something important:

The young people were in far better physical shape.

But the seniors?

They were having way more fun.

They talked to each other.

About working out.
About hating it.
About the weather.

Possibly about grandchildren, medications,
and who had knee surgery last year.

I didn’t catch everything,
but I feel confident in those topics.

I also noticed something else.

People with very real physical challenges
still showing up.

Still moving.
Still trying.

Not to impress anyone.

Just… showing up.

And I found myself unexpectedly inspired by that.

My first visit?

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill.

I went home like I had metaled in an Olympic event
and should be met with applause and possibly snacks.

Now?

I’ve advanced.

Fifteen minutes on the recumbent elliptical.
Fifteen minutes on the recumbent bike.

That is a full thirty minutes
of mild suffering

and excellent people-watching.

I plan to add more.

Machines.
Maybe even weights.

Eventually.

Right now, the lingering effects of chemo
are still living rent-free in my muscles and back.

So we are… negotiating.

Here’s the truth:

I am slow.
I sweat a lot.
I have absolutely no speed on any machine.

And no one has spoken to me yet.

I’,m shocked too. Honestly.

To be fair, I don’t always look like someone you should approach.

But still.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect:

It’s helping.

I feel a little stronger.
A little steadier.
A little more like myself again.

So despite everything—

my official Third Act recommendation is this:

Just do it.

(I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before…)

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Judging quietly.

But do it anyway.

Because sometimes showing up is the win.

-Pattie
So… this is my Third Act

Most mornings in the Third Act start the same way.

Coffee in my hand, the lake in front of me, and a dog beside me who has very strong opinions about how the rest of us should be running this household.

The lake is usually still enough to see my reflection.

Which is why coffee comes first.

Here you’ll find stories about life after the bell — retirement surprises, lake life, surviving cancer, making things, wandering thoughts, and the observations of one very opinionated Wonderdog named Sassy.

Before we go any further, I should probably be honest about something.

This is not a lifestyle blog where I pretend to have everything figured out.

For most of my life I was working, raising a family, chauffeuring kids all over creation, and doing all the things people do when they’re moving through the first and second acts of life.

Then one day the bell rang on all that.

I’m now a semi-retired two-time cancer survivor who is still trying to figure out what retirement actually means, how two people manage to be home all the time without driving each other crazy, and why the dog seems to be the only one in the house with a clear plan.

Most days I’m just writing down what happens next.

Life has acts.

The first act is learning and exploring your world.

The second act is building careers, raising families, and generally running as fast as possible.

And hoping somebody is learning something.

The third act is different.

It’s where you finally have time to look around and notice things — the lake in the morning, the dog at your feet, the creative side of yourself you finally have time to get back to, and stories that suddenly feel more important than they used to.

You might be somewhere in that act too.

This blog is about life after the bell.

I have a feeling there are quite a few adventures left to experience.

This is where I tell those stories.

Before I forget them.

I’m glad you’re here.

Pull up a chair, watch the lake for a while, and see what happens next.

We might even raise a glass – or two.

— Pattie

🐕 Sassy says if you stay long enough, treats should be involved.
There’s Quiet… and Then There’s Lake Quiet

The town where our city house sits is… small.

Not one-red-light small…

But everybody-knows-your-business-if-you-leave-the-trash-can-out-too-long small.

Most people wouldn’t call it a city house.

It’s a quiet little town.
A sleepy town.
A town where sirens are the exception…
not the rule.

On warm summer nights,
you can hear the crickets.

When I say it’s quiet here—
can you picture it?

Because I can.

It’s the kind of quiet that settles in around you.
Predictable.
Comfortable.
The kind of quiet that knows your name.

But at the lake…

it’s a different quiet.

We live at the end of the road.
And I mean the end.

If you don’t stop,
you’ll be in the lake.

There’s no passing traffic.
No headlights sweeping the windows.
No late-night somebody-driving-home noise.

Just water.
Wind.
And whatever decides to speak up in the dark.

You can hear things here.

The soft plop of a fish jumping
from somewhere across the lake.

The low, steady buzz of mosquitoes
that always seem closer than they are.

The sudden flap of wings
as a blue heron lifts off and disappears into the trees.

And sometimes…
voices.

Just whispers of conversation
carrying across the water,
drifting farther than they should.

At the lake, the quiet isn’t tucked in.

It’s wide open quiet.

It stretches out across the water…
and comes right back at you.

Sometimes it’s so still
it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

And sometimes…

it’s not quiet at all.

Even when it feels completely still…

it isn’t.

And somewhere out there, between the crickets and the water,
I’m starting to understand the difference.

If you know wide open quiet, you’ll fit right in…

come back and stay awhile.

Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

–Pattie

The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.

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