Two months and counting.
I have to confess that I am already wearing thin from the eager
questions people ask me when they see me, because everyone knows that I am
retiring. Do I have any big plans? What
will I do first? Am I excited? Am I counting the days? One more perspicacious interlocutor suggested
it must be bittersweet. I don’t know why
I have trouble with these questions. I
have a plan; I’m going to Europe in September…a month picked in case I pine or
sigh too much on the first day of school.
Or die of a heart attack…apparently teachers are the least likely to use
their pensions, and I have heard of actual human teachers who died on the first
day of school the year after they retired.
This shows a devotion to the work, as excellent as it is, that is
over-wrought. My plan is to use my
pension to its fullest, and maybe some of theirs as well.
But by far the most alarming thing I am told is ‘oh, YOU’LL
be fine…you will have so much to do you won’t know where to turn,’ as if they
have some special knowledge of my apparently many pastimes that even I am
ignorant of. I want them not to say that
in case it is a kind of curse. In case
what happens to me is that I don’t whip out my computer to write my next book,
or my paintbrush for that next canvas.
In case what I do is what I have feared all along; I stay in my pajamas
all day and never wash my hair.
One thing that has taken the sting of anxiety out of
retirement is the realization that my ten year old grand son is right; I am
going to get money for doing nothing. It
is so ingrained in me that I can’t quit my job no matter how grim it is,
because if I do I will have to live in someone’s basement and eat beef jerky,
that it has taken me some time to realize that I can quit my job because I will
get money. I worked for forty five
years, and like the faithful retainer in an aristocratic family, I will always
be cared for; my reward for years of unquestioning service.
So, am I excited? I
used to be excited by things coming up; trips to Europe or Mexico. Now all I think is ‘God, eight hours on a
plane…’ My excitement now is that first
breath of foreign air, and a ‘pinch me now’ feeling about the miracle of being
somewhere else fully on the ground. It’s
what I have to go through that worries me.
The goodbyes, the tears (I’m a contact crier), my own sinking
realization that I am walking away forever from something that gave my life
structure and purpose. I know that on
the other side; when I’m in my PJs reading the paper at 10 in the morning on
any day of the week, I will thrill to the miracle of being somewhere else fully
in my own life and won’t have to worry about where my next meal comes from.
I’m not worried about how I will spend the final weeks;
whoever comes into this office will be tidier than me. A gorilla would be
tidier than me. It will take two months just
to remove the Scotch tape from the cupboard doors where I tape up important
memos from head office so that I don’t miss deadlines. I won’t have deadlines where I’m going.
