Yesterday, my younger-than-me doctor dropped a casual remark, "You're getting close to retirement, aren't you?" I looked at her for a beat and then gave a humorless laugh. "Umm... no." She genuinely looked surprised. "No?" she asked? "I don't see that happening for the next 10 or 15 years, at the very least," I replied. "And the way things are going with the markets, maybe never." She smiled tentatively, nodded, and briskly changed the subject. My mood dropped, almost as quickly as the Dow Jones in recent days. While I used to joke about never retiring, I still thought that it might, someday, if I'm careful, happen. But the joke has recently become dark as I am alerted hourly to the happenings on Wall Street by a little red down-pointing arrow that pops up along the bottom of my computer (I really should figure out how to turn it off). As for retirement, I, myself, am surprised at how often this topic comes up. My manager and team at work reiterate the importance of having my job procedures updated, having coworkers cross-trained, and strategies implemented for whatever eventualities might occur (the "R" word isn't uttered, but we all know what's really going on here, don't we). "You can't ever leave," they tell me, and I laughingly assure them it's not going to happen anytime soon, but I still hope. "Will I ever be able to retire?" I ask my Magic 8 Ball. "Ask Again Later," it cryptically replies.
It always comes as a bit of a shock when I hear of friends or coworkers retiring. How is it possible to stop earning an income and live off of savings and investments? How do you know how long you'll be alive? How do you know what might happen? I understand that I've bought into the classic retirement scenario fed to us for so many years as part of The American Dream: Work hard, retire, draw a pension, and travel. Or fish. Or play with grandchildren. Did anyone really do that or is this a collective fantasy? My own idea of retirement is vastly different and doesn't involve not working. Perhaps that's the disconnect. I can see myself "retiring" from working full time because I have to, but maybe pursuing a second act career, or working part time at a job I actually love. I imagine travelling or temporarily relocating to a place I've thought about. In my fantasy "retirement" I pack up only a few belongings, load up a U-Haul, invite June to jump into the back of my car, and off we go. I talk to her about these things, often. "How would you like to be a desert dog?" I ask. "We could go to New Mexico for a couple of years. I could work at a grocery store, and we could hike the desert trails. You could bark at roadrunners, and I could practice my Spanish." Or, on another day, "I think you'd like to be a prairie dog," and I laugh at my turn of phrase. "We could move to somewhere in the Flint Hills. We can ramble on the trails, and you can listen to the coyotes sing at night." Then there's the safety net scenario of returning to Illinois. "We'll have a small house with a yard," I tell June. "And you can run around, and chase rabbits and I'll have a garden and a clothesline. We'll be near friends and family, and I won't be alone." The one constant in my vision of my future is that I will have time to write. Always, time to write.
