Retirement. . .or Reclinerment?

 

FOREVER FRIDAY

It’s my anniversary!

No, not that one. If you add up the husbands, multiply by the number of meatloafs I’ve made and divide by the number of times people with the drawn faces of suffering and hunger have asked “What’s for dinner?” that will let you know how many years of my life I’ve toiled away in blissful matrimony. I mark that anniversary by eating ice cream and turning the air down low every July.

The anniversary I celebrate with joy, despair, happiness, sadness, certainty, and indecision is. . . .

RETIREMENT!

I entered the working world at 22 years old. I was a size ten and could still see my feet. These days if I want to see if my socks match, I ask someone to take a picture.

For forty years, I started the work week asking, “Is it Friday yet?”

Three years ago, I answered my last phone call, took my last long lunch break, stuck my last post-it note to the computer screen, and sauntered out the front door into. . .

a land of turmoil and indecision.

What do I do now?

The first order of business was to get in shape.

With attention to diet and exercise, I lost three pounds. Remember, these are post-menopausal pounds and count as extra credit.

My blood pressure medication caused me to gain four.

I thought about stopping my medication, but that caused everyone else’s blood pressure to go up and made my doctor’s eyes bulge out in a peculiar way. He should see a doctor about that.

I turned my attention to other activities.

I ripped my arm out of its socket and learned to eat cookies left-handed.

I solved the Dude Ranch murder with Nero Wolfe and his sidekick Archie Goodwin.

I napped Every. Single. Day.

Then my sister retired. 

Turns out, as usual, she’s better at it than I am.

She cleaned out her closets, hosted family dinners, threw a fabulous birthday bash, and Oh My God how much more can I take, mopped her kitchen floor.

I have friends who volunteer at hospitals, libraries, and animal shelters.

My husband plans to go into bookbinding when he retires.

I announced tearfully at breakfast one morning, “I’m doing retirement wrong.”

My son, in a family where wisdom obviously skips a generation, said, “Did you go to work?”

Snuffle. “No.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

It so happens that the hardest part of retirement is finding out what makes you happy.

I still haven’t seen my toes in a while. But I restarted my blog, wrote some essays, and made some people laugh.

Which made us all happy.

But I still take a nap. . .

Every. Single. Day.