You might find my retired life rather dull. Deliciously boring (but not bored). This, too, could be yours! For some of us, our work life was intense, and it’s fun to just hang out and be happy cats.

I was thinking about how much I like my boring life, much as I used to like boring politics, when a couple of former colleagues shared a bit of work news with me. That got me thinking about my old job and questioning my decisions. Did I bail out too early?

The answer is no. While I had a rewarding career and was rather obsessed with my job for many years, toward the end, the workplace and all the nonsense that goes on there didn’t seem worth the trade of time for money. I wanted to live differently.

I pulled the plug at age 62 – not exactly early retirement – and went in search of myself. What sparked intense curiosity? What made me happy? It would have been easier to keep working and never face down my essence. At least you get paid to avoid self-reflection. Just keep slogging along and buying more stuff and taking expensive vacations so you have to keep slogging along.

Since I retired, I’ve learned a lot about what I need and don’t need, mostly from the comfort of my living room. My hair is wild. I have one or two outfits I wash and wear over and over. I’m slowly discovering what gets me up in the morning. Aside from golf and nice long walks, I’m excited about food. We cook almost everything from scratch, and it’s tremendously satisfying. I have intense curiosity about dinner. And possibly sourdough, the next frontier.

I love to walk to the library and browse the shelves and think, “What might I want to learn about today?” I rather like the idea of picking some crazy new subject and immersing myself in it. Being an expert at something appeals to me. There’s still time.

Yet, I wonder if I’m wasting my life … that old programming that says produce, produce, produce. These are the same doubts I had when I was working – but now the stress is gone, and I’m doing things that make me happy. All other things being equal, doubt will always be there, but retirement wins.

Retirement can be whatever you want it to be. I prefer mostly uneventful days, but you might seek more action. Find your happy place and go there. As for me, I like to pretend I’m an eccentric Bohemian heiress (perhaps a bit reclusive and frugal) who spends her life dabbling in things that amuse her. And you know what? I look forward to every single day.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

 

Newcomers in the Westchester suburbs in the early 70’s were usually greeted by the Welcome Wagon lady. She brought gifts: jar openers with local merchant logos, dishcloths and other domestic items. In addition, she organized monthly get-togethers at each other’s houses for crafting sessions.

When my neighbor friend and I attended one of those gatherings in our Westchester neighborhood, countering the standards of a patriarchal society was not on my mind.

Seated in a large circle in a comfortable suburban den, we were surrounded by raffia, which we were weaving into small stools when two representatives of the Mount Kisco newspaper appeared brandishing a camera. The photographer took each of our pictures as we finished our projects. Afterwards, the reporter (who obviously didn’t relish this assignment) addressed the young woman sitting to my right.

“What’s your name?” he queried.

“Susan Brown,” she answered.

“Don’t you have a husband?” he responded in a voice dripping with scorn.

“Yes, I do!” she reassured him.

“Well, what’s his name?”

“Eric”

“Ok, so you are Mrs. Eric Brown. That’s what we need.”

Thus, he moved counterclockwise around the room, carefully noting each husband’s name, allowing me time to consider what my own response would be. When he came to me, I boldly replied with my own given name.

“What’s your husband’s name?” He was quite annoyed.

“He’s not here. If you took his picture, would you be asking him my name?” I countered.

“Well, if you don’t tell me your husband’s name, I can’t put your picture in the Society page.”

“OK, don’t put my picture in the paper!”

Gasps came from each corner of the room. I had apparently committed a big faux pas. Without support from the other women in the room, my neighbor and I grabbed our little stools and ran for the door, bursting to let loose our reaction. Safely in the car with the portent of our audacity fresh in our wake, we screamed on the way home like kids running from a Halloween prank.

It’s been a long time since women’s names were identified as their husband’s. Even more significant advances are now taken for granted, but remembering my small misbehavior reminds me of our progress.

Miriam Russell a retired Professor, teaching travel writing and memoir sessions. This is an excerpt from her memoir, Suddenly Single: A Life After Death.

The speakers in the ceiling ask “Why am I soft in the middle—when my life is so hard?” I am taken back and aback by the question. Though I am soft in the middle now like the character in “You Can Call Me Al,” I can’t honestly say my life is hard, especially when i look around at the kids, mostly Latino, who are working at the Taco Bell where I am eating a mini skillet bowl for breakfast and listening to the incongruous existential angst of the first single from “Graceland,” which is now playing in everyone’s background. I suspect, though, I am the only one seeing “cattle in the marketplace.”

The man in the song (of course it’s a man) questions, above all, his own relevance. Thirty-plus years later, that’s still the question for the poor guy, but also the music itself, and, well, me (and maybe anyone who has reached a certain age).

I average two visits per week to this Taco Bell in Ceres, California. I stop on my way to work before my first class, English 136: American literature after 1850 (my favorite). Frankly, the mini skillet bowl, which consists of diced and fried potatoes, scramble eggs, nacho-style melted cheese, and a little Pico de Gallo, is a fine value at one U.S. dollar. This Taco Bell, like all the fast-food establishments in Ceres, radiates a not-so-sanitary charm (you’ll want to limit your visits to the restroom). But the younger people who work here exhibit a resigned friendliness that I appreciate. They are nice to people without pretending they have landed their dream job, though the cashier may have gone too far this morning when she gave me, without provocation, the senior discount.

Meanwhile, Mr. Simon, or rather his speaker, is about to discover his epiphany (damn, I love those angels in the architecture) among those rich African rhythms, and I for my part, contemplate one more refill of diet Pepsi before I find my way to the junior college and my irrepressibly eager students.

D.W. Schmidt is from Hughson, CA and teaches at a junior college.

Everybody has an opinion, but I was shocked to see retirement advice stating it’s important to establish a routine by getting up with an alarm every morning and filling your day with activity. I was going to leave a comment, but this particular site doesn’t enable comments. Here’s my comment:

Are you smoking crack?

Seriously, that is the dumbest advice I’ve ever heard. Dumber than even the new Abby, who hardly ever gets it right, in my opinion. The old Abby had her act together.

Back to the subject of sleep. The author says once you’re retired and don’t use an alarm, your whole day might be spent in bed or on the couch watching TV or on the porch watching the world go by.

I imagine there are retirees who might spend 30 or 40 years working their butts off and then suddenly decide to squander the rest of their lives doing nothing, but no, I really can’t imagine that. Even in my quest to be less productive, I have many interests, and well, shit must be done.

My body wakes up naturally around 6:30 a.m. I read the news and do the NY Times mini puzzle from under the covers, which by the way, is an art form. Bad things happen if you press too hard on the back of the phone. Most mornings I choose not to get up until around 7 a.m. I pack a lot into my days, but I go for the late start and ease in slowly.

The blur of breakfast and lunch can be problematic if you’re not careful, but retirement meal clash can be avoided with proper management.

Waking up without an alarm is one of the greatest joys retirement brings. I waited my whole life for this. While there’s no shame in getting up early to be productive if that’s how you roll, I’m here to say you can ignore all the advice if you like. Not everyone needs a routine. You don’t have to be productive. You can do what you want. You can sleep in.

During my last few years on the job, I had a long commute and got up every morning at 4 a.m. I don’t miss it. In fact, I was thinking the other day about what I do miss from work, and it was hard to even make a list.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Room service! A tiny moment of pure joy after a long day of business travel and painful encounters with disagreeable executives. So, yeah, I miss room service, but I could probably get Dale to pretend.

I only set an alarm if I absolutely positively have to be somewhere early, and these days, that usually means golf. Alarm clocks are also good to make sure you don’t overdo it on a nap.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

You’ve probably heard the story of the man in New York City who told his wife he was just going out for a newspaper and it’s been twenty years since she last saw him. My reaction to the story has always hinged on the kind of people they were. I mean if he was a rotten bastard, then I say she’s been better off without him. On the other hand, if she was a shrew, then I say good on you mate, you’ve escaped.

But let’s look at this logically. Where the hell did he go? One theory that we can discount fairly quickly, is that he was abducted by aliens. We are certain that can’t be true, because aliens favor midwesterners and have almost no use for a jaded New Yorker.

Next theory is that he met up with friends, sat in on a poker game, and lost track of time. When he realized how late it was, he was too embarassed to call home or show up with his tail between his legs, so he started a new life in Albany with all the money he won at poker (good thing he had brought his wallet with him).

Speaking of wallets, another possibility is that he went down to the news stand with just a few dollars and no identification. He was then hit by a cab (happens all the time in New York city) and suffered amnesia. No one knew him and since there was no ID, the police had nothing to go on. Now here’s where it gets interesting. What if his wife didn’t miss him. I mean she knew that he didn’t come back, but she took it as a message from God that it was a good time to continue her life without him. Since he never went to a dentist in his life and worked from home, they had no way to identify him, and despite the repeated printing of his photo in the newspaper, no one could (or WOULD) identify him.

An interesting variation on this scenario is that he bought the paper and while reading it on the way back to his apartment, he stepped in an open manhole. It had been raining heavily all morning and the heavy current carried him to the East River (drowned by that point) and ultimately into Raritan Bay bound for the Jersey shore.

Another theory that many people like is that he had been planning this escape for quite some time. He had stashed away money in a separate bank account and had his passport and everything he needed to make his getaway. The plan was to take a cab to the Port Authority, get a bus to Newark, catch a flight to Buenos Aires, and from there he became a gaucho on a cattle ranch. I saved this theory for last because it is my personal favorite. Walking away from a life and a wife to become a gaucho? I like to think that one day he woke up and realized that herding cattle in Argentina was his destiny, and he had to heed the call. Vamos amigos!

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Everyone said just wait until retirement, when you’ll be spending all your time together driving each other nuts. There’s some truth to the prophecy, but we’ve been working our way through it and doing quite nicely. The driving part is where we get into trouble.

Much of our marital success can be attributed to spending time away from each other. Our love of food and cooking puts us in the kitchen a lot but not usually together. I do most of the housework, so there’s a fun solo activity for me. Dale tends to the yard, barely, but I’m still giving him points for keeping me out of it. I play golf and am sucked down that shame spiral two to three days a week.

All that aside, we are emotionally attached at the core and cannot imagine the day when one of us has to go it alone. But the truth is, we actually don’t need much togetherness. Maybe it’s the secret to our 40-year marriage. We each have our own interests, sometimes they align, and if they don’t, we meet up for happy hour in the living room and swap stories.

But then there are the together days. A trip to the market, the library or a local winery. Road trips. This is where driving issues emerge, and I’m the first one to admit I’m a huge part of the problem. It’s not that I’m a better driver, it’s that I’m a terrible passenger seat driver.

Why would you park in that spot when there’s a better one over there?

Slow down! It’s not a race.

Are you sure you parked inside the lines?

Watch out – there’s a car in the next lane!

Something’s going on up ahead – you’d better slow down.

Oh, don’t turn left here. Go up to the next light, where there’s an arrow.

I do trust Dale’s driving. It’s mostly my neurosis at play, but wheeee goes against all I stand for when it comes to interacting with a motorized vehicle. Still, I have worked hard to zip it, and Dale agrees I am much better. Now, if I start to say something, I catch myself and stop. Unless, of course, it’s a speak up or die kind of thing.

This morning’s paper had a column on driving with one finger on the wheel – one of Dale’s signature moves. I use one finger, too, but it’s the middle one, pointed straight up.

I hate being a harpy, but then I believe every bridge, every overpass, every onramp, is an invitation to death. I marked up the article when I was done with that section and left it there. Came upstairs and sat down at my computer, when I heard this big laugh. I said, “What’s so funny?” He said, “Oh, the subtle message. Thanks.”

You’re welcome! That’s retirement, I thought, just trying to live through it.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.