Monthly Archives: June 2023

My Guilty Pleasure

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I’ve been indulging my guilty pleasure lately as I recover from surgery: watching reality dating shows.

I know the story of every participant on Indian Matchmaker, the Netflix series in which Sima Aunty pursues mates for Indian singles, from a picky Mumbai bachelor to an Indian-American woman here in Durham.

I’ve been following Jewish Matchmaking, too, as Aleeza Ben Shalom helps singles in Israel and the United States to find partners for their wedding chuppahs. There’s Dani in Miami, searching for a guy with perfect eyebrows. There’s Noah, looking for a nice Jewish girl in Wyoming, and CIndy in Jerusalem, who left Canada and now seeks true love.


I know these dating shows are contrived and ridiculous, reinforcing cultural stereotypes and traditional romance norms, but I can’t resist them. Maybe it’s because Champa is from South Asia and I’m from a Jewish family in New York, so both shows resonate with us.

But it’s not just these two. I’ve also watched Love is Blind, the one where single men and women spend hours talking behind barriers, laying eyes on each other only after getting engaged. We find out whether they go on to marry at their wedding ceremonies, which are like car crashes adorned with white lace and sobbing mothers.

God forgive me.

The most famous of these shows is The Bachelor but its manufactured drama and weekly rose ceremonies are too much even for me (although I did learn to say “can I borrow you?” when I need Champa for something).

My sweet tooth for these shows doesn’t align with how I usually present myself. I spent most of my career working with scientists, professors and other smart folks. I read The New York Times every day and lots of high-brow books every year.

So why do I care whether Kwame and Chelsea, above, will stay together in Seattle, or if Fay will ever find an Orthodox Jewish guy in Brooklyn? It’s not very intellectual or macho, I know, but there it is.

It’s gotten worse recently as I’ve been home-bound and unable to do much except daily physical therapy. I’ve passed the time mainly by reading and watching television. Some of the shows have been high-quality, like binge-watching the HBO series Barry and John Adams, but I’ve become way too familiar with the tarot-card readers and “bio-datas” of Indian Matchmaker.

I have little appetite for most other trash TV, from Real Housewives to the Kardashians. I don’t care what paternity tests reveal on Maury or how long it takes for Judge Judy to tell someone to shut up. Shows that focus on baking, cooking, singing, remodeling or surviving? Not for me. I much prefer quality series such as Ted Lasso and The Handmaid’s Tale, or sports and cable news in limited doses.

Still, if you follow this blog for posts about retirement, travel or something else, I seek your forgiveness. I stand before you humbled and contrite. I know I should aspire to nobler fare.

Until then, though, I’ll be rooting for Viral from Durham, above, to find lasting happiness with Aashay whenever Season 4 of Indian Matchmaker finally drops.

Organ Recital

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My mother used to say “another organ recital” to describe her dinner conversations at the assisted living facility where she spent her final years. Whenever Champa and I joined her, sure enough, others at the table would discuss their medical problems. Among the most common of these, as evidenced by the walkers parked nearby, were knee and hip replacements.

During the past few years, medical issues have accounted for a growing share of our own conversations with friends, even though we’ve been relatively healthy ourselves. When I had hip replacement surgery this past Friday, I thought back to my mother’s dinner companions and wondered: Had I finally become one of them?

My procedure at Duke Regional Hospital went well. I returned home the following day and have been recuperating since then with a lot of help from Champa, my sons, a physical therapist and others. I hope to be walking easily again within a few months.

I know how lucky I’ve been to have access to an outstanding medical system and to live at a time when hip replacements have become routine. But the experience has reminded me of something I haven’t wanted to think about, which is the inevitability of physical decline. No mater how active, engaged and “not exactly retired” we aspire to be in this stage of life, we cannot avoid life’s frailties forever. We’re all in the lobby for the organ recital.

My hip problem began during one of the international trips that have highlighted our own adventure since leaving our conventional lives in 2015 to travel, serve in the Peace Corps and then redefine our lives back in Durham. Champa and I were visiting Vietnam with two friends in February when I felt severe pain in my upper right leg. Thinking it was tendonitis. I continued on with our trip into Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, skipping the longer walks to rest on a hammock or elsewhere. Several weeks after we returned home, I finally got an MRI and learned my hip was badly deteriorated and needed to be replaced.

I remained active while hobbling around prior to my surgery, even speaking at two local retirement communities about Moldova and the importance of making the most of this stage of life rather than drifting into old age. At the second talk, my leg hurt so much they gave me a motorized scooter to leave the auditorium. It was Irony on Wheels.

My new prosthetic hip should make me better. Champa and I still look forward to many years of travel, service and adventure, with renewed empathy for those with permanent disabilities. Still, coming as it does on the heels of my prostate cancer treatment (which also turned out well) and the deaths of several dear friends, the experience has gotten my attention.

I’m grateful for how things are turning out so far, truly, but feel more sobered than ebullient. It hasn’t been an occasion to shout “Hooray!” As I continue recuperating, I’m just relieved to be able to say “Hip Hip” and know they’re both working.