Historical February–March 2001 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I don’t know what to make of the fact that I’ve been hearing the R-word quite a bit lately. No. not Recession. Not Ruminate, and neither Rapture. Roil. Rodomontade, nor Rapscallion.
The R-word is retirement. Mind you, I’m not thinking of retirement.
My job is still fun and I enjoy rolling out of the sack and going to work each day.
But at my age, am I in the minority or what? Everywhere 1 turn, someone has called the world of work quits forever. Everywhere I turn, folks are staying in their pajamas until 10am and giving all of their work clothes, ties, or high heels, to Goodwill. (Yes, some are giving away their ties and high heels, but that’s another column.) It gets worse: those who aren’t already retired are talking about their impending retirement.
The boom in the baby boomers is gone; we are now without gunpowder!
My gunpowder has been wet for some time. You see, I just had what my family calls “a highway birthday.” In this case.
It was the big 5-5. No, I’m not at highway 70 yet, thankyouverymuch!
While I feel fairly youthful (on some days) and can certainly make claim to remaining immature (on all days), I recognize that I am no longer a young pup. Indeed, no matter how much I would like to feel like a young pup, those days are over. Young-pupism is gone. Tail-wagging and howling at the moon are but distant memories, and can’t tell you the last time I chased a car_ As everyone who works with me knoWs, you’ll never see my picture in the dictionary next to mature. So I can often deceive myself that I’m not getting any older after all.
But then my body tells me I’m aging in lots of not-so-subtle ways.
Each and every day it tells me; It shouts to me. Getting out of bed in the morning is now a multistep process: move this knee, squirt WD-40 on it, move it again, then another squirt.
Then move the other knee. And it’s not just my creaking and rusty joints. More and more of the pathways through which I receive Information can be placed in the “endangered senses category.” My hearing is virtually extinct. Huh? lf I had to survive on my sense of smell, I’d be in real trouble.
My eyesight is fine as long as I remember where I placed my glasses when I last took them off. Thankfully, my sense of taste, always a strength of mine, has weathered the test of time.
I can still discern among brands of glazed donuts and can easily identify a ceegar with Cuban origins. And my sense of memory is, will be, uh, sorry, I’ve forgotten my point here.
My hairline is but a memory and I often fail to recognize that person who looks at me in the mirror_ He reminds me of my dad, but other than that, I’m not sure. Like most of us who have been getting the AARP membership card for longer than we like or can remember, I try to convince myself that I’m resisting aging.
After all, I still play quasisemi-full-court basketball at least weekly, read the comic strips, and am a devotee of Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones. Indeed, I’m astounded to realize that not only am I a tad older than Prez Clinton. I’m not that much younger than Dick Cheney.
Now there’s a scary thought!
But retirement? No way, Jose.
As said – at least I think I said it, I’m not quite sure – I enjoy my job.
I am successful and feel like I’m helping to make a difference in the world. That sort of satisfaction is hard to beat.
Now granted, much as I enjoy my job, I also enjoy not enjoying my Job. Thai is, I relish the weekends and vacations.
In fact, I’ve been fortunate enough to have some prolonged periods away from work, and while I’m always happy to return, it’s not because I was bored while away.
I have a myriad of Interests, from writing letters to the Post that are never published to thinking about my Great American Novel to reading at least some of the books that taunt me from my bedside.
But each time I’m away, I appreciate how much fun it is to be back at work. 1 figure, perhaps foolishly, that I can do the other stuff -when I’m older and grayer. So for me, retirement isn’t something to which I necessarily aspire. Yet everywhere I turn, someone my age. sometimes even younger, is hanging up the strap. Just the other day I was talking with an old college fraternity brother. He’s been teaching for more than 30 years and “come June,” he says, he is “outta here.” Both the date and the party are set. Huh? He’s my age with a June retirement party planned, and I’m thinking about hiring people for the next year.
His toothy grin would make the Cheshire Cat look shy. “But what will you do?” I asked him, a bit enviously but more curiously. “Oh.
I don’t know,” he replied smugly, having clearly fielded this particular question a raft of times_ “I’m thinking of making getting into landscaping, or maybe I’ll have time to watch all the great games on Classic ESPN.” “Whoa,” I thought to myself, I don’t know anyone who really has the time to watch Classic ESPN, except for Bernie, and you can argue that this is part of his job. Think about it: time to watch the 50’s Yankees, 60’s Packers, 70’s Steelers. 80’s Cards, and 90’s Bulls.
Now there’s nirvana for you! Then. at a holiday party, I talked to another friend, someone even, gasp. younger than myself. He’s been retired for a few months now. “Investments have been good to me,” he said. “Investments have been good to me”? I’m not even on a first-name basis with my investments, and his have been good to him? Where did I go wrong??? “So.” having regained some of my composure. “what will you be doing?” I asked him, preparing for the worst. ‘I donno,” he responded with a smile. looking for projects, reading. sleeping late. getting acquainted with Diane Rheam and Alex Trebek ” His smile lit up the room.
The next day I was at work where else, when the first wife called me, returning from a Girls’ Luncheon she had attended.
She called about 4pm and when I asked her why the lunch had gone on so long, she said, “Oh silly, my friends are all retired.
We had nothing better to do than eat bon-bons and gossip.” They’re retired, too, I pondered, rubbing my sore knee. Were their investments good to them too? Or was it their first husbands? Or both? Clearly I’d done something wrong in my feral youth. Somewhere there was a retirement ticket and I must have passed on it. It’s a bit like the fact that I never took the SAT because I kept forgetting to bring my money, simply another lost opportunity.
I began this column by saying that I enjoy my job and am not looking forward to the BIG R. That’s still true.
On the other hand, it’s clear that at this rate, in a few years I’ll be the only person my age who is still working, at least still dressing up (relatively speaking) and leaving the house each day to go to work.
I already wear clothes that are older than many of my employees, but with all my peers hanging it up, this is getting ridiculous, After all, we don’t know when the grim reaper is coming, so we may as well have some time to relax before the final whistle. What to do, though? Surely, Shirley, it will cost a bundle for me to retire.
My magazine subscriptions. alone, will exceed my Social Security check.
Then there’s my monthly online and cable television fees, not to mention the cost of belonging to both the Cigar- and Pastry-of-the-Month Clubs.
I can do without new clothes or travel, but these, dear reader, are necessities. Its too late to buy AOL or Microsoft and expect to make a gonzo profit when selling. Buying options on Rams’ PSL’s has gone by too.
I can be frugal.
I can save every dollar possible. but since I’m already at the highway age. that’s not likely to do the trick It’s clear that there’s only one route left to me to avoid being the oldest person I know who still goes to work each day. “I’d like 100 Power ball tickets. please.”
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, February–March 2001.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2001_02.pdf, printed page(s) 12; PDF page(s) 12.
