Treadmill Respite

Every month at the end I offer myself three consecutive days without treadmill sessions.  Those days are 29-30-31 or 29-30-1, depending on the month.  They are welcome, they are needed.  Often I find myself sore, mostly legs, as most recent months I push myself to a new walking duration or up the speed by 0.1mph.  Many months, including the one currently transitioning, have setbacks, days of illness or injury.  I do my very best to avoid any zero days, mostly succeeding.  But a drastically reduced session rarely resumes at the full level of where I left off.  This allows me to reset at sessions 5-10 minutes below where I had exercised previously, then resume to full sessions, usually by month's end.

Those three days pass rather quickly, often with recovery more functional than complete.  Back still a little stiff, knees still needing local care, if not a couple doses of naproxen.  The new month invariably begins, filled with some optimism of reaching another new level when the new month concludes.

I have been fortunate that limitations have been mostly orthopedic, not cardiovascular.  I had some symptomatic volume depletion following a blood donation this past month, one that reduced this timed walk to five minutes.  I've also over-extended, feeling energetic enough at 25 minutes to push for 30.  Additions of two minutes go un-noticed, even reset the new normal.  Additions of five minutes bring soreness. This creates a branch point, endure or cut back?  I mostly choose the prudent option and reset my sessions downward.

Having now done this for a couple of years into my 70's, I definitely feel more energetic, maybe adapting to a basal level of lower extremity soreness.  Good decision to allow some healing each month.

Best Hours

Retirement mostly allows me to choose what I do when.  No commuting times, not many scheduled meetings, few appointments.  That's not to imply lack of schedule.  One reason for a very successful last couple of years has been to assign times for certain activities.  Up at the same time each morning.  Treadmill as close to 7:50AM on scheduled days as I can get it.  Big mug of water consumed every morning as soon as I go downstairs, which usually follows dental hygiene, then coffee goes into that mug with a splash of creamer.  All goes to My Space where I select three priority activities for the day.  Email follows, not before.  While coffee brews and I sip water in the kitchen, I head outside to retrieve my wife's newspaper.  I also wash some dishes.  The mornings are subdivided into times for specific activities.  Some of these assignments do not always serve me in the best way.  It is convenient to take my blood pressure when I make coffee, before exercise.  However, assessment of where my blood pressure ranges requires that it be taken at different hours, which I try to do.  By 9AM, my Daily Task list has a few items crossed off.  Other than treadmill, none of these activities are things I might make excuses not to do.

Deep work, focus with a timer, has not adapted to scheduling quite as well.  Some hours link to creativity or perspective.  In my working years, mornings generally found me more engaged than afternoons, though I did some of my best reflective work closer to quitting time.  There may be a difference between my motivation to perform and what I accomplish.  Some tasks require mental acuity, others require attention to routine.  

I think my higher CNS centers do best after a second cup of morning coffee.  I can compose new thoughts and express them in the best way.  That 9-11AM window has very little structure.  During that time, I should be typing, not shopping for groceries, and certainly not scrolling FB.  That's time best suited to create something from a blank screen or page.  Yet it has not acquired an inviolate protection of my schedule the way the scheduled treadmill efforts have.

In the afternoons, tend to read and respond.  The Atlantic now has a section to invite reader comments after each article.  So does eJewish Philanthropy and Moment Magazine.  I guess their editors figured out that Twitter, where journalists prefer to interact, has repelled enough readers, myself among them, that they need to offer a more acceptable forum.  I read and respond, mostly early afternoons.  My thinking prowess seems a little diminished from its peak, but still adequate.

That mid-day segment, 11AM to 1PM seems something of an ebb for me. OLLI classes during the school year cluster during that time.  When not engaged in classes, struggling to stay attentive, I gravitate to my activities that do not require much mindfulness.  That's the time to go to the supermarket or scroll FB.

Late afternoon becomes another lull, a time for my mind to retreat.  There are studies which show doctors are least attentive in those hours and make more faulty decisions than they do before lunch.  I find myself struggling to express myself in an articulate way at that part of the daily cycle.

The evening restores an element of routine, though perhaps not the best routine.  I make supper, one usually planned much earlier.  I'm not very creative but don't have to be to boil some pasta or sautee some garden burgers.  Then eat, PM medicine, and return to My Space, though this time surfing YouTube instead of actively engaged at my desk.  It's not dead time.   I choose videos that add to my knowledge.  I often read the books I am tackling.  But I do not engage in expressive, creative work in a meaningful way after supper, other than planning the activities for the following day and checking off what I did that day. I have a late-day routine, less rigid than my morning one, but there is a set time to shut down the laptop and phone.  At the end of the day, I read some more, rehearse any Torah readings I have committed to performing in the near future, and recap what went well and what did not over the course of the day.  Then lights out at 10PM unless my wife needs to keep them on to read.  

I think there are parts of each day best suited to different tasks.  Identifying that slots suit what activities has a lot of uncertainty.  For jobholders, assignments determine them.  I retirement I have control.  It's still not clear if what I choose to do at different times enhances or undermines actual performance.

The routines at the beginning and end of each day have served me well.

Spending My Gift Card

As a research subject, a common pursuit in retirement, many projects offer honoraria.  I donate the money but redeem the gift cards.  For several months I've had $50 entitlement to the endless array of stuff that Amazon offers, but the e-card remains unused in some part of my email Inbox.  It's not that I've not purchased anything on Amazon since receiving the gift from the University's research grant,  I have.  But I paid with my own Visa card for a few items I felt I needed.  These freebies go for the more frivolous desires.  I've bought a violin bow in the past. And two ink cartridge pens.  I have a fondness for pens of all types. Don't remember what else.  Frivolous occupies space without being used much.  As a senior, I have enough things, so many that minimizing clutter creates a challenge.

I have enough clothing.  Dress clothing only gets worn to synagogue these days.  Ties once attracted me by the designs they have and the statements they make.  That age has long passed.  I have bought watches, a retro and a smart watch, but did not use the gift card.  By now I have a collection of art supplies that remain dormant.  Good stationery was once something I found attractive, but has become obsolete with electronic communication.    Musical instrument.  A flutophone, if they still make them, will not bite into that $50 very much.  I have unused harmonicas.  I think a mandolin would sell for more than $100.  Bongos probably in budget.  Ukelele maybe.

I like retro electronics.  Tape recorders, small boom boxes.  Those are better obtained used on eBay.  I have enough Judaica.  At one time I found fragrances indulgent.  Jade East and Hai Karate could be found on tables at my favorite discounters.  Those iconic scents may still exist, and probably within my gift card's limit.  And some barbershop classics, though I have some of these

What about logos?  My alma maters. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Swag of all types.  I have clothing, coffee mugs, beer steins.  I like to get them either as souvenirs of a campus visit or a store display.  I don't think I'd acquire them on Amazon.

YouTube influencers know that dedicated Amazon consumers abound, mostly young people in their acquisition time of life.  Video clips of 15-30 minutes reveal all sorts of gadgets, many creative electronics, that they might find on Amazon.  I watched some.  The majority omit the prices in the presentation.  Whatever I get will be within budget.

While I have no incentive to ever redeem this gift, or really a minor earning on my part as the research project occupied me for about two hours, I don't want it to languish. Nor do I want my effort to redeem it to occupy a lot more time than earning it did.  Surf the Amazon site and those YouTube videos a bit more, then set an evening to just make a purchase.  It does have to be something I would not have indulged myself with my own income.  

 

Travel Preferences

OLLI Spring Semester concluded. Shavuot observed.  A time gap follows until classes resume after Labor Day.  That leaves three months, largely unscheduled, months of opportunity for exploration.  Some fixed points, or semi-fixed points, appear, but not many.  A rendevous with daughter and granddaughter on their travels.  A scheduled doctor's appointment.  Father's Day.  Our anniversary. Tisha B'Av in late July this secular calendar year.  No pressing household chores.  Outdoor gardens need little maintenance.  No pets to arrange care. Mostly possibilities.  Three months of possibilities merged with priorities.

While the current price of fuel has spiked, getting away from home periodically remains a priority.  My wife and I clashed on how this should play out.  Programmed with no hassle suits her.  Minor adventure with new experiences falls high on my radar.  When I set my current semi-annual projects six months ago, I included air travel as an initiative.  Wife sorta OK with that until we arrive at a destination.  Then a thumbs down to car rental and multihour drive.  We discussed cruising.  Conceptually fine.  Europe no.  Canada sold out for the peak of our summer.  Road trip of any type requiring overnight motels along the route has not gone well the last few times.

We diverge on political overtones.  Scenery and marvels of nature and much of history has been populated by people who vote differently than we do.  I just want to have new experiences.  She wants to restrict who benefits from our money.  

So we worked out a pact.  For the peak summer, we would travel by car for a few days.  The air travel would bring us to our grandchild who lives in a place that votes more like we do, but with some nature and resorts.  Not irreconcilable differences.

Big trip the following calendar year, special personal milestone, contingent on health.  A reasonable accommodation to each other.

Shavout Experience

Of the Jewish Festivals, Shavuot often gets treated in a subordinate way.  People look forward to the High Holy Days, a time when synagogue dues get paid up to enable large attendance.  People shop for new clothing to greet old friends not seen since last Rosh HaShanah.  We hear Shofar.  We eat apples and honey. We return to school.  Sukkot has us entering sukkahs.  If we do not have our own, the synagogue has one or we are likely to be invited to a friend's sukkah for dinner sometime in the week.  Hanukkah coincides on the calendar with the more widely observed Christian holidays.  We Jews claim our stake to the season.  We shop for gifts, light candles, eat latkes.  After we put our menorahs back to year round display on a shelf, we transition to the next calendar year.  Winter vacation gives us a break from school or work.  

Then a long winter.  By Pesach, we could use a renewal.  Clean house.  Hard work exchanging dishes.  Expensive outlay for suitable food.  The preparation shares elements of engagement and annoyance.  But then Seder arrives.  For many the first elegant meal with gathering of special people since Thanksgiving.  A week's break from school gets inserted somewhere, usually before Pesach for college spring break hedonism, better timed to the Easter culmination for lower grades.  Pesach, like Rosh HaShanah and Hanukkah, serves as carved out time. 

Shavuot often seems anticlimactic.  We anticipate the others spontaneously, awaiting their mostly festive experience.  Anticipation of Shavuot, though, has more formality, one commanded in Torah.  Every night after dark, we count the Omer, 49 days, seven weeks, both counted each night with a blessing.  I have to set my timer to remind me at 9:10PM, go downstairs where I keep the log of what number arrives, spend two minutes doing it, then return to what I was doing.  It registers in my mind as obligation, even intrusion, more than anticipation.  Its place amid the secular calendar which can vary between years, does not have the consistency of the other Festivals.  More often college has ended but public school has not.  Schedulers of graduations and class trips do not always accommodate their observant Jewish students, forcing some priority choices.  As school years conclude, friends are as likely to scatter as they are to gather.  Shavuot lacks a visible ritual.  We celebrate Torah, the core of Jewish existence, with more obligation than revelry.  The synagogue experience, while only two days, often seems long with additions of Hallel, Akdemut, Ruth, and Yizkor, all just as the weather sometimes becomes hot.  And all while too soon for the youngsters to head off to camp, their real source of anticipation.

As this Feast of Weeks nears its arrival, I have faithfully completed the Omer count.  It is tradtional to spend the evening of onset learning, often late into the night.  Some find this energizing, others add it as another extension  of burden one more night.  I focus on food.  Shavuot has its classical foods.  Blintzes and cheesecake.  Meals are traditionally dairy, with a variety of reasons to justify this tradition.  I will be a synagogue participant, though a minor one, chanting a portion of the Book of Ruth with its delicate, enchanting melody.  Most years, I have a guest to share dinner the second night when no competing synagogue activities occur.  Menu preparation and execution challenge my creativity and organizationsl skills.

The Menu:

1. Kiddush in the manner of Manischewitz
2. Challah made by me, with its elements timed to do some before services, some after
3. Blintzes with cottage cheese and raisin filling.
4. Vegetable soup.
5. Asian Cucumber Salad.
6. Coulibiac, a Russian fish pie in puff pastry, requiring a few different steps. 
7. Lecso to honor my Hungarian heritage.
8. Austrian Linzertorte to avoid the cheesecake cliche, which they can have at synagogue.
9. Kosher white wine.
10. Herb Tea.

All within my capacity.  It takes a step-child of a holiday and brings it a little closer to the others.  I'm long past graduations, not past summer vacation.  Shavuot retains its significant seasonal intersection.

Historical Synagogue

My twelve semi-annual projects often include a quota of day trips or other visits to places I've not been before.  One opportunity came my way unexpectedly.  The American Jewish Committee, among my favorite advocacy groups, invited me to a special luncheon in Philadelphia.  The local chapter has a memorial endowment to honor an esteemed historian of American Judaism.  Lunch would be kosher, priced at $36 for the entire event.  They announced the two guest speakers.  The Mayor would offer her remarks on the role of Jews in our city.  Another esteemed historian, this one a retired Reform Rabbi of local prominence and protege of the endowed professor, would follow with a presentation on the role of Philadelphia's small contingent of Jews in the American Revolution, as national preparations proceed to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence this summer.  I reserved a place.

With attacks on places where Jews gather becoming distressingly common, many of our agencies have avoided announcing the location of events until the day before, and then only broadcast by email to those registered to attend.  It would have to take place at a site the Mayor could easily access, either near City Hall or the Historical Area.  My email directed me to Mikveh Israel Synagogue, the city's oldest.  I'd never visited, though I knew of its historical prominence in the development of American Judaism.

The day arrived.  As a senior, I have an unlimited pass that gives me free access to SEPTA regional rail system, provided I do not cross any of Pennsylvania's borders.  The transportation will only cost $2 for parking at the train station a few miles from my home.  I checked the schedule two days before.  Take the 9:36AM commuter train, which will bring me about seven blocks from the synagogue.  From there, I could either take a bus or the subway to within a block of the event, or just walk the distance.  The train pulled into Marcus Hook station a few minutes late but arrived at Philadelphia's Jefferson Station uneventfully.  This terminal has its own attractions.  The City Hall complex can be seen to the west.  Tunnels take visitors to what they designate as the Fashion District and the famous Reading Terminal Market, which serves an array of ethnic cuisines.  The Convention Center sits just beyond that, and Philadelphia's small but active Chinatown another block in the direction of the Historical Area.  I opted to walk, it being a pleasant mid-morning.  

Market Street.  Once the city's main thoroughfare.  Addresses read North or South depending on their direction from Market Street.  The surroundings near the train station have long since lost their elegance.  Iconic department stores, many of Jewish origin, have closed.  Their repurposed buildings now anchor retail chains that die in parallel at regional malls.  I strolled onto the Historical Area.  The green next to the Independence Hall Visitors Center sponsored a national Prayer Day.  A young lady did a dance on the lawn waving a flag with each arm.  I captured a video.  In one direction I could see Independence Mall with a group of Amish teens in traditional dress heading to their timed tour.  A class trip of grade schoolers followed.  To the north, I could see the Constitution Center and the Mint, each requiring a telephoto of my phone camera.  Franklin sites sat across the street, largely without tourists at mid-morning.  As I reached 4th Street, I turned left.  Address given to me 44 North 4th.  Mikveh Israel should be in the next block.  I didn't see it.  Finally, I reached the Windham Hotel, unsure if I had passed my destination or had yet to reach it.  I entered the lobby, inquiring of the Concierge.  I had passed it.  Rather than sitting beside the sidewalk, the synagogue occupied a nook with a tiny path creating its front entrance.  In this era of synagogue attacks, not being noticeable from the street has a security advantage, one enjoyed by my own congregation.  

I entered a modern brick building, its name in block signage over glass doors that ran most of the synagogue's width.  Two men in suits stood at the entrance, not the uniformed officers whom visitors to American synagogues now encounter first.  I proceeded to a registration table, the first one there.  I showed the AJC official my driver's license.  She then handed me my name tag, placed alphabetically right below the Mayor's.  I peeled the adhesive, then attached it to my shirt.

History had a full display, as did current worship practices.  Glass cases displayed notes from Presidents, Washington first, Trump front and center, Lincoln's in his own handwriting with his personalized Humble and Obedient Servant closing, FDR's typed and signed.  Displays of artifacts from the colonial era and beyond.  Judaica used at various times in the synagogue's history.  As the main game in town from its 1740 founding until mass immigration 150 years later, many of their Baalebatim occupied prominent places in Philadelphia's history, as they do today.  Portraits of these men, all men, lined the walls above the display cases.

One room had a more temporary exhibit.  A member secured a collection of portraits and other photos of diplomats from around the world assigned to 1930s Europe.  They came from South America, the Far East, different parts of Europe.  As Naziism took hold in Germany, then moved to France and eastward, the need for Jews to relocate became apparent.  These diplomats offered exit visas.  One bishop, later known to the world as Pope John XXIII, offered phony baptismal certificates to many.  The exhibit had a display case of books about that era in Europe.  The display's curator, who must have spent considerable time assembling this, personally guided me through the various items.  In modern contentious times, good will still lurks, its abundance uncertain.  Courage may be more scarce.

Too many historical synagogues, from Europe to the Caribbean to the Lower East Side, now function more as museums than as places where Shabbos services take place.  Mikveh Israel remains an active synagogue with a black sign with movable white letters at the entrance announcing prayer times and the name of its Rabbi.  I entered the sanctuary.  It is modeled in the Portuguese style of its origins.  A central table stands in the middle, the Holy Ark on what I think is the east wall.  Behind the central table is a seating area, marble and cushioned, with an ornate patterned rug.   I assume the Rabbi and president sit there.  Worshipers occupy pews running the length of the sanctuary, each facing the center.  The room has four entrances, two to the north, two to the south of the center.  This synagogue follows a tradition of separate seating for men and women.  The latter occupy the back two rows on each side and enter from separate doors.  Unlike most American orthodox synagogues, they do not have a physical barrier to obscure women's view of the proceedings and the genders' view of each other.  The women's two rows of pews sit slightly elevated from the men's.  

Books for worship sit in holders in front of the seats.  Their Siddur has a prominent Sephardic Rabbi as editor.  Their Chumash remains the iconic Hertz, that staple of American synagogues for fifty years, until largely displaced by the emergence of Artscroll.  One person must have been a VIP.  Immediately in front of the central table, at floor level, sat a wooden chair with Kohen Hands decorating its back.  Its protection by plexiglass suggests its antique and fragile origin, as well as its historical significance to Mikveh Israel.  Nearly all synagogues I have visited, including my own, have a wooden box near the entrance where those without their own kippot can borrow one, or if a Bar Mitzvah that day, take one home as a souvenir.  This congregation instead had a box of fedoras that men could wear during worship, along with a supply of prayer shawls draped over a rack.

I did not see their kitchen facilities, but AJC assigned me to Table 8 in the middle of their dining room.  The space could accommodate a significant crowd.  I do not have a sense of how many people attend services, how many Bar Mitzvah celebrations they host, or whether that space enables rental income to offset membership dues.  Along the far wall were washing stations, a series of taps and common sink with two-handled lavers set on a stone ledge.  It is customary for people eating a meal to wash their hands with a blessing before blessing a loaf of bread.  This luncheon did not include bread, probably for the convenience of the observant people in attendance.  Tables were set with white tablecloths and dark cloth napkins.  Literature from the AJC sat over each plate and seat.  The caterer arranged a buffet, two lines of identical dishes.  Salmon poached or grilled as the entree, three salads, two sides.  Beverages and dessert display stood waist-high along another wall.  As a nobody, my table would offer me similarly obscure eating companions, with the partners in the Center City law firms seated at tables closer to the lectern from which Her Honor the Mayor would address the group.  I met a few new people, including an Irish woman from the NYC Embassy and a high school friend of my wife. 

The Mayor has a lot of official duties.  She came to us to speak, not to eat, but she waved at my table of Nobodies as she headed to the front.  More of a Jewish-Black partnership pep rally presentation, though with one compelling story of friends reacquainting decades after fleeing the Holocaust.  The educational session did not disappoint.  No bread for the meal meant no Grace After Meal, so I headed home as soon as the moderator opened the floor for questions to the guest Rabbinical scholar.

Center City Philadelphia in mid-afternoon seemed less populated than I expected.  The Day of Prayer in the open space next to the Visitors Center had moved along in its agenda.  Pastors now occupied the stage, one speaking, though not audible to me, while other late-career men in suits sat on the stage waiting their turn.  The discreet signage of the morning had become more explicit.  Along Market Street a revisit to the same storefronts of places I had no desire to enter.  Seven blocks west of Mikveh Israel, I entered Jefferson Station for the SEPTA train home.  A very pleasant day, well worth the $36 luncheon, probably worth deferring other things I could have engaged in at home.

Did my minor adventure yield what I sought?  Mostly it did.  Often, getting there surpasses the destination.  This time historical Mikveh Israel remained the centerpiece.  In an era where synagogues come under attack, where places like my home congregation with a lesser but still significant legacy struggle with attendance, I found it gratifying that a place could live through much of the history of America, contribute to it, and revel in a display of artifacts and portraits of people.  It had an area for worship, a Beit Tefillah, and a library, or Beit Midrash, each smaller than I'd expect.  But it served more as a Beit Knesset, a place where people of prominence from the Founders of the Colonial era to today's Mayor can assemble.  The synagogue reflected stability, if not growth.  And as a meeting place, people of all social strata could admire the displays, eat a luncheon catered with care, and wash hands at a station next to a person who you do not know but who left a civic imprint.  It seemed a place where Social Capital, bonding and bridging, has remained in continuous progress for more than two hundred years.  Absolutely worth devoting a portion of my time to share it with the synagogue and with the event's AJC sponsor.

Donating Whole Blood

Regular blood donors are a dedicated group.  We mostly do not know each other, but invariably greet each other when one of us wears a Blood Bank insignia cap or t-shirt to a public event.  Platelet donors have a special dedication to their contribution to public wellness.  Not everyone can donate.  The recipients of this blood component comprise some of the most ill but recoverable patients in any hospital.  For decades, I had served as a donor.  The donation process challenges the donor.  Extraction of blood with return of the red cells takes about two hours plus another half hour to confirm screening for eligibility.  For some, both arms get immobilzed, leaving the donor with little to do but watch a movie or two episodes of Queer Eye on a flat screen that the staff moves in front of the donation recliner chair.  Arms and other joints can get sore at the end.  In my decades as a donor, I've had a few misadventures, including infiltration of the red cell return into the soft tissue of my upper arm, which left quite a bruise.

My days as a platelet donor have come to an end, not because of safety to a recipient, but because of my own age-related inability to remain immobilized for two hours.  Some other physiologic symptoms prevent this, including a periodic need to use a restroom with little advance warning.  My medical care has taken me to a variety of specialists, including a hematologist.  I've had iron deficiency in the past, which limited my ability to donate anything, but at least with platelets, they return the RBCs.  With iron levels now corrected and stable, I thought I'd give a unit of whole blood, which takes far less time to collect.

Options for doing this far exceed platelet options, which require dedicated machinery and trained staff at a large center.  For whole blood, I could visit a more convenient location.  With the approval of my hematologist and very acceptable CBC and iron levels, I made a donation.

It took place just a few miles' drive.  The regional medical center had taken over the large building where,, as a young homeowner I purchased my best furniture forty years ago.  The furniture industry has not been kind to its merchants. This one folded.  Its building was repurposed twice, now as a satellite of a comprehensive medical system.  The Blood Bank, a separate entity, occupies a suite on the second floor and collects basic blood products twice weekly.

They checked me in.  Decent BP and acceptable Hemoglobin on their often inaccurate desktop hemocytometer.  I asked the nurse if she had a record of how many donations I had given.  Some time ago, the Blood Bank sent me a card that I had reached 90.  They've sent me lapel pins as a reward for 25 and 50.  I aimed for 100.  Her records, accessed on her computer, put my donations at 103, gallons at 19.  No acknowledgement of the milestone.  I don't know how they compute gallons for platelet donors, though I was a whole blood donor for many years before they notified me unexpectedly of my eligibility to give platelets, something rarer and more valuable to the blood banking system.  I had a few health changes since my last donation, which should not change eligibility.  I noted that on the intake form.  She had to make some phone calls to confirm that my blood products would remain acceptable to a recipient.

She set me in a chair, one more like a dental chair than the massive recliners used for platelet donations.  A quick puncture, one readjustment halfway through, and a pint or so filled a plastic collection bag.  She bandaged the puncture site.  Rules require that whole blood donors drink something in the canteen and stay for 15 minutes to be sure that dizziness does not occur.  I sipped a zero-sugar Sprite, which tasted odd, while the stopwatch of my Casio 168 counted up 15 minutes.  I then arose.  I could tell that some volume had been removed but I felt functional.  A quick restroom stop outside the collection suite, then the elevator to the first floor.  With minimal lightheadedness, I sat down in a chair in the medical center's entrance lobby for a minute or two before driving home uneventfully.

Feeling OK, I did another errand.  Outside my front door, in warm weather, I grow culinary herbs in pots.  Rosemary has been a staple, a plant that has not survived local winters, whether planted in an outdoor bed in the backyard or in a pot that I bring inside to avoid a freeze.  It has been hard to find this spring.  My trusted garden center ran out, but told me of an expected shipment.  I headed over, finding two trays of rosemary, robust in appearance, among their herb display.  I handed the agent a $5 bill, then headed home.  It will soon outgrow the small plastic sales container, so I transplanted it into the larger plastic planter where I grew last year's rosemary bush.

Then some tasks at my laptop in My Space.  I could still feel a bit off, not wanting to do household chores, including making supper.  With my wife's permission I orded a pizza, a large one from a local shop nearby. It did not cost that much more than Domino's or Papa John's and bakes more delicous pies. In my online order, I had them add anchovies to half.  I'd not had them in a long time, like them better than my wife does, and thought the saltiness would help with my mild volume depletion symptoms.  I drove to the pizzeria, prepaid online when ordering, and returned home.  I ate quite a lot, five of the eight slices, three of the four with salty anchovies.  I began to feel a little worse, but a recliner chair eased the symptoms.  Then I lay down on the living room couch.  At 9:10PM, that Casio 168 let out a faint alarm, reminding me to count Omer, this night 42, completing six of the seven weeks.  I took the sheet with the daily count and blessings to a better-lit part of the living room.  Now as I arose, I could sense more severe orthostatic symptoms.  I did the nightly count, which only takes a minute.  Feeling more lightheaded, I sat down in the nearest chair for a minute or two, them moved across to the couch where I could be more supine.  That alleviated symptoms.  While I have a blood pressure device in the kitchen, I did not want to get up again or bother my wife to bring it to me.  Staying horizontal would suffice.  It did not take long to zonk out.  Two hours later, almost an hour past my usual bedtime, I awoke, feeling strong enough to go upstairs, but with a stop in the kitchen for some ice water first.  I drank the contents of the insulated bottle, maybe half a cup, took another half cup of tap water after that, then refilled the bottle for the refrigerator.  I headed upstairs feeling better but still depleted.  At 2:30AM I awoke thirsty.  Maybe from sacrificing a pint of blood, maybe from three anchovie slices.  I no longer felt lightheaded.  By now the water in the thermos had chilled.  I drank some, then returned upstairs.

I awoke to a clock radio alarm, still not quite right but not ill.  Dental hygiene, then some more cold water downstairs.  A drizzle had hydrated the herb pots overnight, including the new rosemary.  I had no significant symptoms while retrieving the newspaper from the end of the driveway.  However, I thought it prudent to reduce the intensity and duration of my scheduled treadmill session.  Unless overtly ill, it never gets skipped entirely.  I performed OK, though a full intensity session would have been burdensome.

Today I must focus on recovery and extra hydration to replace volume.  I met a few goals with the donation, reaching the 100 contribution milestone and visiting a place I'd not entered before.  Pleasant staff.  Somebody should benefit from the packed RBC and plasma that my blood should provide.  However, the volume loss took its toll on me.  And I'm a bit annoyed that in a world of automated systems, the Blood Bank had not notified me of my 100 donations, irrespective of whether they offer a tangible recognition as they did for 25 and 50.  Probably best to let the younger donors take over.