RETIREMENT RETICENCE

I’m of that age. People around me are retiring. I’ll ease my auto-panic button by adding that these are early retirements. Early-ish. 

 

Those who know me probably view me as retired, too. I’m an in-betweener—not technically working but not qualified for full retirement. Seven years ago as of next month, I went to work on a Friday and, by Monday, I’d disappeared. My version of quiet quitting. I’d checked into a psych ward and, upon discharge seventeen days later, I was told by my psychiatrist I wouldn’t be returning to work. Not until the new year. Then, he told me not for the rest of the school year. Then, never.

 

Never has gone on now forever. I know that’s a way to view the word, but I startle myself every time I realize I haven’t worked since 2017.

 

What?!

 

I’d always been a dedicated, hardworking employee. Exemplary. Beloved. I got so much of my identity from being a teacher, then a principal. When my role vanished—POOF!—I couldn’t stop doing, striving, trying to be productive. I write seven days a week. I generally work through holidays. I neither want nor need a day off. I have accepted that I can’t re-enter the regular workforce, but I like the work I’ve created for myself. I have a hard time closing my laptop. When I do, I’m often reaching for a notepad or the back of a receipt, jotting down more ideas, sentences, sometimes just phrases that I must capture. My brain remains in overdrive. 

 

This may be, in part, due to the fact I’m bipolar. My mania is subdued compared to many who experience bipolar episodes. I never lose my sense of control, a trait that’s been better groomed through my experiences with an eating disorder. Yes, I have many labels. What I find magical is that each condition has its challenges but also meshes well with other conditions, somehow creating a fine balance. I could elaborate but, for the purpose of this post, the takeaway is that neither my mind nor my body can be still.  

 

That’s why the notion of retirement still makes me uncomfortable. I know there will come a time when, from the perspective of my school district and the federal government, I will officially be retired. It’ll affect my bank account and how medical matters will or won’t be covered. I haven’t researched this. Formal retirement remains several years away. I choose to keep the word and all its associations at bay, head in the sand, index fingers blocking both ears. La-la-la. I can’t hear you.

 

I’m unsettled enough seeing how some of my friends handle retirement. One, with whom I’m meeting for coffee later today, is seventy and has some chronic health issues that require maintenance routines that eat up hours of each day. Bummer. But, through all our discussions, I have a hard time piecing together how he fills all the remaining hours of the day. He plays the piano, he does a workout and then _____. Like me, he doesn’t have many social commitments. Also like me, his food prep time is minimal. He’s extremely routine-oriented and extraordinarily efficient. He’s not a reader. I’ve never heard him talk about a book. How do the days pass? I suspect there’s a lot of screen time. Not social media…he’s not on any platform. How much does he stream? How much does he nap? I get restless just thinking about all the downtime. 

 

The only person I remain in contact with from high school retired earlier this year. Once best friends, we’re Facebook “friends” now, a few messages exchanged each year. (I typically log off in a panic whenever someone sees I’m on FB and starts live messaging. I don’t like these go-nowhere chats that go on until—boop—they’re done, abruptly concluded without any sort of sign-off. Alas, “Sincerely” and “Yours truly” don’t align with Messenger, Facebook and text messaging.) 

 

After his first month as a retiree, this friend sent a Facebook post, sharing his observations about The Price Is Right. For some reason, this horrified me. TPIR was a go-to when I’d be splayed on the sofa, a blanket pulled over me, a tissue box on the floor, body achy, brain foggy, a rare sick day. Sadly, it was also regular viewing on August mornings when I was in high school in East Texas, the temperature outside already hitting 90, my friends still sleeping till noon. I was as lethargic as your average teen, extended periods of boredom seemingly developmentally required.

 

Does that part of adolescence return upon retirement. Is that why my friend tunes in for the Showcase Showdown? It’s unimaginable.

 

He has since done other classic retiree things, most notably going on two cruises. Much better than the daily drone of television but not my thing. Fair or not, I have some fixed images about cruises and none of them involve Julie, my cruise director, setting me up with a love that’ll last at least five days. I’m not very social so it shouldn’t matter that many cruises I hear about are filled with families, gays or retirees. I’d probably refuse the assigned dinner seating and eat in my room. A box of crackers and some yogurt suit me just fine. (Yes, that eating disorder of mine can complicate things but it can also simplify them.) 

 

My biggest issue with cruises is that lack of personal control. (That trait of mine again.) I don’t want to feel “stuck” asea. I don’t want to join the masses disembarking on cue, boarding buses or joining perfectly timed walking tours that ensure I’ll make it back to the ship on time to head off to the next tourist-primed destination. I like the freedom to skip over must-sees that don’t appeal to me and linger at quirky stops that don’t even register with the locals. Basically, I don’t want things to feel cut short or drawn out. If that means one destination instead of five ports of call, so be it. 

 

Lots of people I know LOVE cruises. So be it for them, too. I hope my high school bud fits in more cruises and, please, don’t let there be reception to watch The Price Is Right on ship.

 

The guy across the hall from me is also retired. When I first met his wife on the elevator, she said, somewhat derisively, “I’m Joyce. And my husband, who’s bald, is Hank. You’ll be seeing a lot of Hank.”

 

I wouldn’t be happy if I were bald Hank, his lack of hair the most notable identifier as per his wife of who knows how many years. 

 

But Joyce was right. I do see a lot of Hank. I hear him even more, the door to the hallway closing countless times a day as he heads out on another walk with his dog who announces “Walk Time! Walk Time!” every time its paws hit the hall floor. “Walk Time! Walk Time!”

 

Got it.

 

Like me, Hank is restless. Directionless, too, it would seem. He wanders. He takes trash down to the dumpster when the count reaches three items. Hank can do what he wants. That’s the perk of retirement. 

 

Both Joyce and Hank have held prestigious government jobs. I know this because I stumbled upon a couple of CBC articles about them. Nefarious business practices, awarding contracts to one another without noting a conflict of interest. Newsmakers, my neighbors. I think it’s another reason Hank enjoys retirement. 

 

What gets me about Hank is I’ve lived in the building, right across the hall, for two years and it’s still unclear whether he recognizes me. I’ve introduced myself. I’ve tried neighborly chitchat. Sometimes my hello goes unreturned. (Good god, can he hear me dueting with Adele from the hallway?!) Sometimes he talks but it’s never an exchange. I might offer a prompt and he’ll go with it. Weather. The dog. Weather again. 

 

I really suck at chitchat. 

 

But Hank sucks more. All chit, no chat. If I hop on the elevator from the lobby and he’s already in, he’ll hover his right hand over the button panel and say, “What floor?” Every time. I nod to the button already lit up. “4.” It’s news.  Our little Groundhog Day.  

 

Is it dementia? Honestly, I don’t think so. He’s on the condo board. Mr. Conflict of Interest helps make the big decisions about building operations and contributes to recommendations over how to spend tens of thousands of dollars on issues that must be prioritized. I’ve heard a very cranky Hank during AGMs on Zoom. He knows a thing or two and has opinions that are clear, if not always popular. Hank’s all there.

 

I just don’t register. It’s flabbergasting. Countless encounters. 

 

Gotta keep the mind active, as they say. Something beyond making decent armchair price estimates on Uncle Ben’s rice, a new recliner and an Acapulco trip package. Definitely something more than making sure the garbage cans in the condo are always empty.

 

Let official retirement bring no change to my writing habit. Let the sole perk be that I can switch from saying, “I’m on disability” to a more widely acceptable designation. So many people look forward to retirement. For me, it still looms and taunts.