Does this work? Can you simply announce your Venmo and Cashapp and rake in the wedding presents?
It’s everywhere. The shuttle driver who took us from long term airport parking to our departure terminal had QR codes for his Venmo, Cashapp, and Paypal. Clever man. Several of the passengers scanned them for his tip. After all, who carries cash?
Our local street-corner violinist has his Venmo on the small sign next to his instrument case.
We Venmo-ed money to our friend who watched our dog for us last weekend.
Churches have Venmo QR codes in their entryways for contributions.
A few folks supported my devotion-writing efforts last spring via Venmo.
If I was going to send a gift Erik and Noel’s way, I would at least want a piece of cake. In a similar vein, I’ll donate to a local kid’s sports team if they’ll wash my car, sell me a muffin, sing me a song. But not if you’re just standing there with a bucket (or Venmo sign) asking for cash.
So you don’t have to ask a stranger for money. Your Vemno or Cashapp can do that for you. Who knows? It just might pay off.
The other day my wife said, “It really bugs you when people ask you that question.” She was right. It’s a tough and uncomfortable question to answer; “So what are you doing now?” Many want to know.
This question was asked before my planned retirement date and and comes fast and furious a year later.
Sometimes it’s a friendly conversation starter. “So what have you been doing?”
Other times I feel like I need to justify my decision to retire. “What do you do all day?”
“How do you pass the time?” That one has notes of depression and meaninglessness.
A year into retirement, I feel guilty saying it’s been great. I haven’t been bored. I don’t miss my work (more on that later). And I’ve been plenty busy. Here’s a little recap of my first year into retirement.
I have been writing. In addition to this blog, I wrote a set of Advent devotion in 2022, and then Lent devotions for the following spring. I thought I could monetize these, but only netted $18. Having gotten little feedback, I may not write more in the future.
I’ve made four trips to Dallas to visit my son and his family, plus a week long fall color trip to Maggie Valley, NC.
I redid all the landscaping in my front yard, painted the inside of the garage, rebuilt some of the backyard kids play fort, converted the front bedroom from a guest room to a music room/study.
My wife and I watch some of the Florida grandchildren at least once a week.
My church involvement has included a biweekly small group, and a weekly men’s ministry, as well as weekly worship. I also did a year of Zoom Bible Study Fellowship with men from around the world.
I’ve read three books a month, often from the library. Most are detective/crime novels.
I get to the gym three times a week (free membership) and easily get in 10,000 steps a day walking the dog(s), doing yard work, or other stuff around the house.
I’ve been learning bluegrass guitar. I’m not quite ready for a jam, but I’m getting better at my pentatonic scales.
I’ve been sorting through thousands of digital photos, deleting duplicates, sorting, and labeling the keeper. I’ve also been paging through hundreds of journals, constructing a time line of our lives. I’d forgotten places we’ve been and things we’ve done.
My winter/spring garden yielded lots of cherry tomatoes and way too many jalapeño peppers.
I’ve attended a whole bunch of the grandchildrens’ soccer, basketball, t-ball, baseball, and flag football games, plus a dance recital.
I certainly don’t feel like I’m “passing the time” until I cash in my chips. The fact that I don’t miss my work tells me two things. First, it was the right time to retire. Second, I was burnt out.
A number of pastors at the church where I’m now worshiping get a sixty day sabbatical every five years. What a difference that would have made. I rarely got more than two weeks off in a row, ever. Some of that is my fault. I should know better than to keep going on empty.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed pastoral ministry. But I enjoy being out of that role, too. I enjoy just being me.
When we sat down at a table by the window in Bahama Breeze in the Orlando airport, I saw a QR code on the table. Interesting. I could scan, order, and pay right on my phone. Sweet. About five minutes later, when no server had come to our table, I decided to give it a try.
I scanned the code, brought up the menu, and started clicking boxes for our meals. Salad, fish tacos, drinks. Done. Easy-Peary. I clicked on the shopping cart to check out.
A message popped up. “A server must open a tab for this table to use virtual ordering.”
Wait a minute. I thought the purpose of this was to bypass the need to wait for a server. If a server had come to our table, I wouldn’t need to order online.
Finally someone did come over. Paola greeted us, saying, “I guess I’m your server.” There were very few servers working a couple dozen table, so she was hustling. She did a good job and I gave her a nice cash tip.
But hey, don’t tease me with a QR code if you’re only going to lead me to a dead end.
Members have access to this gym twenty-four hours a day. It’s not a big gym. It probably doesn’t have too many members. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place in a strip mall next to a Cuban restaurant. But it’s well-equipped, close to my house, and extremely affordable.
It was a Thursday, outside of my usual Monday-Wednesday-Friday routine. On those days I join about a dozen other people to workout.
But this day, three others were there at 9 am. Fifteen minutes later, they left, and I was alone. The front door was locked, 90’s metal music filled the air, and I still had a few sets of bench presses to go. It felt weird. Not creepy, just unusual.
So what’s better? A room full of people to work around? Having to wait your turn at a bench? Or having the place to yourself, with no one watching you, judging you, or waiting for you to get done at a station?
It really doesn’t matter. Most people just do their own thing. They’re not watching. They’re focused on doing their own thing. I probably do more observing than most.
And maybe that’s why it felt so strange. There was no one to notice, no one to watch.
How would you feel if you were the only one at the gym?
He was already in the window seat when I slid into the center seat and stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me. He didn’t nod or look or even notice me. He just stared out the window, cell phone in hand. I don’t think he moved even once during boarding, the long wait for takeoff, and 150 minutes in the air.
As we were just about to land, his phone caught a cell signal and I spied on his oversized texts with someone on the ground.
[We’re landing head to the pickup area]
[Where are you]
[We’re landing go to the pickup area]
We were just about to touch down at DFW. The Dallas – Fort Worth airport has five terminals, and each terminal has multiple pickup areas for arriving flights. You need to let your ride know exactly where you will be.
[Which terminal are you in]
[I’m in the big yellow plane]
Spirit airlines has big yellow planes. Lots of them. And they seem to be everywhere.
[Where are you]
[I’ll find you when I get off the plane]
Infrequent fliers must be intimidated by air travel through some of the huge airports. Maybe I should have offered to help. Or, maybe I shouldn’t have been looking over his shoulder reading his texts.
Yeah, he was talking to me. Sixteen-ish, the young man was chatting it up around the gym, making sure everyone knew he was there. A little shorter than me and quite a bit heavier, he helped me add twenty-five-pound plates as I got ready to do some squats. When he watched me get ready for some deadlifts he reminded me that I was the oldest guy in the room.
I’ve been called Grandpa and Apa by my grandchildren. In fact, when I was playing with a bunch of MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) kids, they all called me Grandpa because my grandson did. But I’ve never been called “Gramps” before. It’s a label I’ve always associated with someone much older than me. Apparently, I qualify.
Is it normal to feel younger than your chronological age? My dad would argue with me about his age. When I asked him, “Did you ever think you would live to be ninety?” he would chuckle and say, “I’m not that old.” So, I’d ask him, “When were you born?” He would correctly answer, “1924.” “So, you are in your nineties!” He’d shake his head in disbelief.
There is one older gentleman I see in the gym just about every time I am there. Ed walks with a cane, sits on a few machines, and cranks out a few light reps. I give him credit. He’s there, doing more than most people. When he’s there, I don’t feel like “Gramps.”
Anyway, I’m just going to receive that comment as a compliment. I’m there doing more than most, too.
The sign on the door threatened, “If you let anyone in through the front door when the owners are not present, you will be dismembered.”
Well, OK, I exaggerate. The sign didn’t say dismembered. If caught, you’d be charged an extra month’s membership fee.
My insurance pays for a gym membership, so I found a 24-hour place a few miles from my home and got back into weightlifting after years of mostly bodyweight HIIT workouts. The owners are on-site from 11 am to 7 pm during the week. The rest of the time, members enter with a fob that unlocks the front door.
I guess some were letting nonmembers in to work out for free, so one morning, a very specific sign was on the front door. Don’t do it. Don’t let anyone in when the owners aren’t here. Or else.
I wasn’t there to work out, but the first time I stopped by to look at the gym, someone let me in the door. They simply said, “The owners aren’t here right now.”
The business is small enough that the owners know all the members. One of them must have stopped by unexpectedly and discovered some non-members working out.
Anyway, I was in the middle of some squat sets when I saw a couple at the front door, reading the sign and peering in the window. A large man got up and let them in through the door with the threatening sign.
They were dressed in workout clothes, but they didn’t stay. “We’ll come back a little later.”
That’s the way it is, right? Rules don’t deter. If a sign is up long enough, soon you won’t notice it anymore. Locked doors pique curiosity rather than keeping someone out. Warnings are for sissies, right?
There’s another sign at the gym: “Rack your weights – in the right place.” Naturally, when I walk in the floor is littered with plates, collars, bars, and dumbbells. When an owner arrives, he spends thirty minutes picking up and putting away equipment. You do what you have to do.
Although I tend to be a “rules” kind of guy (I always put my weights away), I have my kryptonite. I’ll always flip a light switch with a piece of tape over it to see what happens. I like to check out rooms labeled “Employees only.” Are we past the expiration date? I say, “Let’s see if it still tastes good.”
Kathy, the receptionist at our veterinarian hails from Scotland and was delighted the first time I brought our newly adopted Westie, Winston, in for a checkup. He picked up on her accent and could hardly contain himself. She made a point of coming out to say hello, so glad to greet a “country cousin.”
The visit was cut short as a gentleman brought an older dog through the front door. She whispered, “This one’s not too friendly. Keep hold of your leash.”
The patient didn’t seem aggressive. No wonder: her owner had drugged her up with some Trazadone in preparation for today’s visit. She hardly paid attention to the other dogs and cats in the waiting room. Returning to her desk, Kathy asked, “Did you bring in a sample?”
“No. We’ve been walking around for the last half hour, and nothing.” Of course. She was there because of an hourly need to poop. Now? Nada.
As they sat in a different section of the waiting room, Kathy told us a story about the young man sitting with her, answering most of the incoming phone calls. She shared how he recently put a caller on hold to ask, “What are the ‘trots’?”
Every cat and dog owner in the waiting room laughed out loud.
Embarrassed but a good sport, he asked, “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what the ‘trots’ are?”
I said, “I think it’s a clinical term” and we all laughed a little more.
We’ve got plenty of euphemisms to describe this bodily function. I hear new ones all the time. So I guess we can give him a pass for not knowing what the ‘trots’ are.
As I was driving around today, I thought of a number of reasons why I will enjoy autonomous cars on the road in the near future.
These cars will use signals for all right and left turns and lane changes. I know I’m not the only one dismayed by the rare use of the turn signal.
Self-driving cars will not roll through stop signs nor will they run red lights. I pause when the light turns green. Too many cars have sped across my path in defiance of a red light.
No autonomous cars will be riding my butt on the highway. They will maintain a safe and reasonable distance behind me. That will be refreshing.
That’s because they will be driving the speed limit. They will not be pushing the envelope to see how fast they can go.
Self-driving cars will not cut me off in town or on the highway. They will not weave in and out through traffic.
They will park amazingly well. Straight and between the lines. What, no dings on the door? And not on my front lawn.
They will go when the light turns green. Self-driving cars will not be distracted by phones or kids, but will pay attention to the traffic signals.
No autonomous car will be driving fifteen miles per hour below the highway speed limit either.
And they will all know where they are going. They won’t ignore wrong way signs and turn into incoming traffic. They won’t crawl through town looking for a street. GPS will guide them right where they need to go.
We’ll be in self-driving cars sooner than we think. Is that a good thing? We’ll soon find out.
