The Measure of Me

As of this morning, when I happened to notice, I have a FICO credit score of 826 out of 850. If you’re into credit porn, that’s good.

This reflects nothing other than a desire to remain out of debt in these senior citizen years as much as possible, and then just being bored. I shouldn’t be aware of this; it doesn’t mean anything to me, and it certainly doesn’t reflect my wealth (what there is of it😊).

It was just a game I began to play when I began to have the time, by which I mean more time than is really useful. When I began getting Social Security, I used the first few checks to clear out any lingering credit card debt, etc. I made an insane spreadsheet that documented all of my moves to avoid paying even a cent of interest to anyone.

I know how credit works. I’m not opposed to lending and borrowing; few of us could buy a house or even a car without it, at least for most of our lives. It was just a puzzle to be solved; I know the ins and outs of this biz now, and how to game it. I use five different credit cards over the course of a month, taking advantage of card points/perks (used to be airline miles; now it’s just discounts, but they add up).

There is no financial acuity here, none. Do not look to me for investment advice😂. I do sort of wish I could transfer that FICO score to my daughter.

It rattles me that I can’t describe what my life is like, not really. I’ve tried, here and elsewhere, believe me. I spent years doing this very thing, and it almost feels like dereliction. This is what I’m here, or that’s sorta how I feel. To document, to demonstrate. To show what it’s like.

A lot of it has been busy work like the FICO, not really necessary but not without value besides giving myself something to do. I’ve cleaned a lot of drawers and closet shelves, because I can do it sitting down.

I’ve rearranged this room I spend 99% of my time in maybe 15 times over these three years; it’s tiny, about 100 sq ft, a child’s bedroom designed in the 1950s, functional but not excessive, and it’s not hard to do. If I’m moving a lot of furniture, it will take all day, which is cool (I push a sofa with my foot for a while, then stop to rest. It’s like a Tetris game in very slow motion).

Aside from writing and some general entertainment things, like emceeing an event, what I’ve been known for over the past couple of decades has been walking and baking. I changed my life by adapting a routine of loooong walks around my neighborhood (at least an hour, usually two) nearly 20 years ago, and I have no memory of when I started messing around with flour and sugar. It began with bread, that’s all I recall.

Doing things in sequence are very difficult for me; it’s not just having a recipe right in front of me and checking things off. There is constant anxiety about this, all to do with serious short-term memory problems. I can do simple things as long as order doesn’t really matter, or is forced by circumstances (the two things I make the most, a simple cookie and brownies, have to start with butter and sugar or they don’t make sense). Many times I’ve added baking powder or an egg to batter/dough just before sticking it in the over, always comes out fine. Simplicity is everything.

And, of course — of course — I can’t walk. Almost every day, for a moment or two, I believe I can. Eventually I test this by going out to get the mail, which always requires resting afterward. It’s five minutes, folks. It kicks my butt every time.

Who am I, then? Good question, and really maybe not the one I should be asking at this point in life.

But my usefulness has been stripped away. I can still do small chores and that’s…something. I can’t support anyone, though. Even friends I know who are literally suffering from something physical or emotional can’t count on my support. And of course I can send a note of encouragement — I just won’t remember to.

It’s frustrating being unable to explain this box I’m now in. If nothing else, surely there are interesting tidbits about starting life over in a limited fashion. Lots of retired people probably have similar situations. I just wasn’t ready.

And really? I’m not excited about sharing stories of how shitty I feel all the time. The only real interesting aspect I can see is how I adjust. Cope. Adapt. Stay alive.

When the pandemic began and skills in video, etc. were suddenly important, I became really useful, and hellbent at getting out from under my ignorance. I watched tutorials all the time on Photoshop and After Effects and video editing and motion graphics, etc. Until I realized they were becoming redundant — I know this stuff now.

But I can really only use it for my own amusement, maybe some others if I make something entertaining. I’m nearly ecstatic when I find a project that I can do for someone, and that will take time, but I eventually realized I can’t. The stress is too much, mostly because sometimes I can’t do anything, and then just because I tend to forget everything.

I can pass the time, or at least so far. But even producing just a short animated video, which I’m always working on, rarely pans out. I still have hope that something will pop and inspire me.

I’ve spent three years by myself. I can’t begin to describe how bizarre my life has become just from the isolation alone. Visitors and times I’ve left the house are actually countable. It seems like I should be able to find interesting things to say about that, even as dismal as it sounds. I don’t really do dismal, or want to.

Although maybe this newsletter is dismal, I dunno. I started out with a concept, but wandered into the only subject that’s always on the table — me, bouncing around my house and in my own head. Not really bouncing.

I’ll try harder. There are good things. There are always good things.