We’re acclimating to condo living and meeting a lot of very nice people. That’s not something we bargained for. Neighbors are friendly and kind, and we are still able to maintain our privacy. I’m meeting a lot of women my age, which is an added bonus, along with the elderly people who have lived here since the condominium community was built. Our next-door neighbor is the oldest resident in the complex; she’s 97 years old. She is highly respected in our community and not just because of her age. She’s a lovely person with a regal bearing. She’s someone I want to help since she lives alone. Interestingly, I find it extraordinary that I don’t stay in touch with her just because of the chesed involved. No, Mrs. Berlin has become my friend.

We decided it was time to replace our kitchen appliances. At the time, we didn’t realize what an undertaking that would turn out to be. We learned a new term, called “supply chain.” I was reassured from the store that our order was next in line, but didn’t understand it really meant that our appliances, which were ordered in July, wouldn’t arrive until December. I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone and sent copious emails inquiring about these machines. No one had any answers, and I began to wonder whether I would ever see them.

I’ve gotten out of the habit of swimming. I was in the pool for the first time in many months, but Baruch Hashem, once I was in, it felt like I never left. Well, almost. Before my long hiatus from the pool, I could swim 12 laps in 30 minutes without an issue. Yesterday, I was wiped out after pushing myself to finish 10. But I’m determined to get back into the groove again. It’s been too long, and I’ve run out of excuses.

I was so proud of myself after I came out of the pool, and it felt good to be exhausted when I went to bed last night. Swimming does that to me, but it would be better if I reminded myself of that fact more often, to help me stay on track.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m setting the table for Shabbos. As I spread the snowy white tablecloth onto the table, I feel something crunchy beneath my feet. I peer down and spot a lone Cheerio laying peacefully on the rug. I smile as I pick it up then start to unfurl the plastic table covering. Oops, there’s something else underfoot. This time, it’s a piece of pretzel coating from the schnitzel we had for dinner the night before. And look, I see a piece of construction paper over there.

I grew up in a different time. The lines between adults and children were drawn with precision. I called adults Mr. or Mrs., and it never occurred to me to answer back to my parents. When I ate with adults other than my parents, my siblings and I sat at the children’s table. We never felt left out; that’s just the way things were back then, and we accepted it without question.

Mostly everyone I knew learned proper manners. We said please and thank you, ate with our mouths closed, and were taught not to interrupt adults when they were speaking. My mother insisted we speak correctly, using correct diction. In my small town, my friends all said, “I’m going over my friend’s house” and “It was so fun.” I learned to say, “I’m going over to my friend’s house” and “It was so much fun.

I’m looking online for vitamins. Who wants to pay 12 dollars when I can get them for seven? But in order to get them for that lower price, I’ll need to spend at least 35 dollars on other merchandise to get the free shipping. I rack my brain as I think, now what do I need? How about tights? No. What about my husband’s favorite snack bars? No, he just ordered a box of them recently. Toothpaste? Shampoo? Nope, I’m well stocked.