I wrote this for my mother, who retired on Thursday. Congratulations; you deserve every cup of Bailey’s you can get your hands on.
The Morning After I Retire
The morning after I retire, I’m going to make my coffee stout – no need to drink half-caff to counteract the 10:00 am spiked blood pressure I normally experience at the office.
I’m going to sit on my couch and imagine the hum at the office: the Fed Ex man making deliveries, the phone ringing, the shredder running, the sound of the door slamming as people come through, and the spirited cackles of my co-workers.
I’m going to gaze at the tree in my back yard: the one I’ve never noticed before. I’ll fix my eyes on its auburn coloring, the two dead branches that stick up at a 45-degree angle, and the squirrel that dances on the high green needles. Then I’ll notice the empty space above my sliding glass doors that could really use a wrought-iron sconce-type-thing to liven it up.
I’ll notice my neighbors who walk at 9:00: a young mother with teeny moving being covered with a pretty hat in a stroller; a retired couple-the man, nodding; the woman, waving her arms in cadence as she talks. I’ll wonder what they are chatting about; it wouldn’t be about their jobs. Maybe, about their grandchildren? Their next trip? At this point, it’s hard for me to imagine what else would occupy one’s mind. Then I’ll catch a clean view of Mrs. Paxton run by in her spandex shorts, headphones on, ponytail bouncing-the skinny devil. Is this what non-working women have been doing over the last 40 years?
I’ll probably sip my coffee, breathe deeply, and ask “What now?” I might imagine a scene in which I introduce myself to the new me that I’ve never met – the one who doesn’t know anything different than office life. What will be my first impression of this new me? Will she strike me as one who has just found gold? Or will she seem lost, floundering?
I think I’ll imagine my best day at work; the one where I got to see the results of my best effort and my strengths acting in concert ; and I’ll once again revel in the magic of that day – the day when I put a dent in something; made a mark. Then I’ll imagine my worst day; where all of the motley dysfunctions seemed to collide and unexpectedly blew up in my face like a land mine. On that day, I was unfairly criticized; overwhelmed, and disillusioned – I mistakenly thought my job was more satisfying than this. I remember feeling trapped with the same annoying situations to face every day, and no better options.
It will dawn on me that best day, the worst day, and the ordinary days crystallized on the day I retired. I’ll pick up the necklace that was given to me yesterday at my retirement party and look closely at the stones in the pendant. As I stare at them, I begin to see imbedded images. One is yellow; in it I see the encouragement I was able to offer a co-worker when her son was in juvenile services, and she was anticipating the looming court date that would settle his fate for the next two years. One is green – it resembles the lives of those my work impacted completely unbeknownst to me. I see their families standing in the background; their lives also affected by the fact that I was faithful to get out of bed morning after morning to the sound of my alarm, and offer the best my tired mind could give. One is iridescent; it sparkles. At first I have a hard time making it out, but then, I see, it’s my character. It has been changed by the things I hated most about work – the co-worker who always felt free to criticize my work, the new meaningless rules and regulations that constantly demanded my compliance, the things that would not change despite my best lobbying efforts.
My deep thoughts will be interrupted by a phone call from a friend asking me out for lunch. I’ll do the usual scanning of my calendar in my head; searching for a date that is beyond the deadline I usually face on the 15th of every month. I’ll suddenly remember that someone else will now handle that deadline, and, now I’ll find it impossible to find a reason that I couldn’t go. I’ll suggest dinner, instead, in order to avoid the discomfort of making plans on such short notice.
I’ll reach for a pad of paper and a pencil and sit down again. I write at the top: Things I’ve Always Wanted to Do but Never Had the Time. What will first come to mind are those that gnawed at me when my kids were growing up; those things I could have done if I would have had my summers off like my teacher friends did: organizing 20-year-old photos thrown in a box, cataloging video collections spanning 30 years on old mini-DV tapes. These make the top of my list. As I continue thinking, I’ll feel a twinge in my stomach when I think of how Gwyneth Johnston – the lady in my church council – made me madder than a hornet, and how I have done nothing besides let the anger fester for the past 10 years. Maybe, then, I’ll decide I should write her a letter. Then I’ll think of my good friend who moved away 30 years ago, and ponder what it would be like if I bought a plane ticket and surprised her by my arrival.
I’ll see the postman go by, and discover that he comes by at 10:45 am. I’ll set my coffee down and run out to the mailbox. In my stack of mail I’ll see an envelope from Dakota Choral Union, and remember I filled out a card at my granddaughter’s choir concert a few ago expressing my interest in being a part of the choir. This Christmas they are performing select pieces from “The Messiah”. I see rehearsals are on Mondays and Thursdays from 7-9 pm. My first thought: I usually prepare for Tuesday morning staff meetings Monday evenings; but, oh, yes – no more staff meetings. This might actually work. I’ll wonder what people wear to music rehearsals. Maybe I should buy some new lipstick. The next envelope in the stack is from Modrick’s Travel: “Cruise packages starting at $1599”. As I walk back to the house I realize that I need to actually name the places I’ve always wanted to visit; realizing I have lumped them into a generic place called “Oh, the Places I’ll Go When I Retire”. I’ll pick up my coffee, sit back down, and add these to the list. Finally, I’ll add: “Figure out what else I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time”.
I think I might wonder how one changes gears so abruptly – from one life to another in one day. I’ll wonder what my mom felt when she retired twenty years ago. What did she do that morning? What did she feel? What did she see in her gems? What was on her list? And I’ll realize that what I actually did on the morning after the day I retired was completely different than what I thought I would do. I’ll find it more confusing, more joyful, more reflective, and more uneventful than I expected. That’s when I’ll get up from my chair, and add a little Bailey’s Irish cream to my coffee, because I can. And I’ll put my tennis shoes on, go out my front door, start walking, and ponder what I’ll do on the morning of the second day of my retirement.
The Morning After I Retire
The morning after I retire, I’m going to make my coffee stout – no need to drink half-caff to counteract the 10:00 am spiked blood pressure I normally experience at the office.
I’m going to sit on my couch and imagine the hum at the office: the Fed Ex man making deliveries, the phone ringing, the shredder running, the sound of the door slamming as people come through, and the spirited cackles of my co-workers.
I’m going to gaze at the tree in my back yard: the one I’ve never noticed before. I’ll fix my eyes on its auburn coloring, the two dead branches that stick up at a 45-degree angle, and the squirrel that dances on the high green needles. Then I’ll notice the empty space above my sliding glass doors that could really use a wrought-iron sconce-type-thing to liven it up.
I’ll notice my neighbors who walk at 9:00: a young mother with teeny moving being covered with a pretty hat in a stroller; a retired couple-the man, nodding; the woman, waving her arms in cadence as she talks. I’ll wonder what they are chatting about; it wouldn’t be about their jobs. Maybe, about their grandchildren? Their next trip? At this point, it’s hard for me to imagine what else would occupy one’s mind. Then I’ll catch a clean view of Mrs. Paxton run by in her spandex shorts, headphones on, ponytail bouncing-the skinny devil. Is this what non-working women have been doing over the last 40 years?
I’ll probably sip my coffee, breathe deeply, and ask “What now?” I might imagine a scene in which I introduce myself to the new me that I’ve never met – the one who doesn’t know anything different than office life. What will be my first impression of this new me? Will she strike me as one who has just found gold? Or will she seem lost, floundering?
I think I’ll imagine my best day at work; the one where I got to see the results of my best effort and my strengths acting in concert ; and I’ll once again revel in the magic of that day – the day when I put a dent in something; made a mark. Then I’ll imagine my worst day; where all of the motley dysfunctions seemed to collide and unexpectedly blew up in my face like a land mine. On that day, I was unfairly criticized; overwhelmed, and disillusioned – I mistakenly thought my job was more satisfying than this. I remember feeling trapped with the same annoying situations to face every day, and no better options.
It will dawn on me that best day, the worst day, and the ordinary days crystallized on the day I retired. I’ll pick up the necklace that was given to me yesterday at my retirement party and look closely at the stones in the pendant. As I stare at them, I begin to see imbedded images. One is yellow; in it I see the encouragement I was able to offer a co-worker when her son was in juvenile services, and she was anticipating the looming court date that would settle his fate for the next two years. One is green – it resembles the lives of those my work impacted completely unbeknownst to me. I see their families standing in the background; their lives also affected by the fact that I was faithful to get out of bed morning after morning to the sound of my alarm, and offer the best my tired mind could give. One is iridescent; it sparkles. At first I have a hard time making it out, but then, I see, it’s my character. It has been changed by the things I hated most about work – the co-worker who always felt free to criticize my work, the new meaningless rules and regulations that constantly demanded my compliance, the things that would not change despite my best lobbying efforts.
My deep thoughts will be interrupted by a phone call from a friend asking me out for lunch. I’ll do the usual scanning of my calendar in my head; searching for a date that is beyond the deadline I usually face on the 15th of every month. I’ll suddenly remember that someone else will now handle that deadline, and, now I’ll find it impossible to find a reason that I couldn’t go. I’ll suggest dinner, instead, in order to avoid the discomfort of making plans on such short notice.
I’ll reach for a pad of paper and a pencil and sit down again. I write at the top: Things I’ve Always Wanted to Do but Never Had the Time. What will first come to mind are those that gnawed at me when my kids were growing up; those things I could have done if I would have had my summers off like my teacher friends did: organizing 20-year-old photos thrown in a box, cataloging video collections spanning 30 years on old mini-DV tapes. These make the top of my list. As I continue thinking, I’ll feel a twinge in my stomach when I think of how Gwyneth Johnston – the lady in my church council – made me madder than a hornet, and how I have done nothing besides let the anger fester for the past 10 years. Maybe, then, I’ll decide I should write her a letter. Then I’ll think of my good friend who moved away 30 years ago, and ponder what it would be like if I bought a plane ticket and surprised her by my arrival.
I’ll see the postman go by, and discover that he comes by at 10:45 am. I’ll set my coffee down and run out to the mailbox. In my stack of mail I’ll see an envelope from Dakota Choral Union, and remember I filled out a card at my granddaughter’s choir concert a few ago expressing my interest in being a part of the choir. This Christmas they are performing select pieces from “The Messiah”. I see rehearsals are on Mondays and Thursdays from 7-9 pm. My first thought: I usually prepare for Tuesday morning staff meetings Monday evenings; but, oh, yes – no more staff meetings. This might actually work. I’ll wonder what people wear to music rehearsals. Maybe I should buy some new lipstick. The next envelope in the stack is from Modrick’s Travel: “Cruise packages starting at $1599”. As I walk back to the house I realize that I need to actually name the places I’ve always wanted to visit; realizing I have lumped them into a generic place called “Oh, the Places I’ll Go When I Retire”. I’ll pick up my coffee, sit back down, and add these to the list. Finally, I’ll add: “Figure out what else I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time”.
I think I might wonder how one changes gears so abruptly – from one life to another in one day. I’ll wonder what my mom felt when she retired twenty years ago. What did she do that morning? What did she feel? What did she see in her gems? What was on her list? And I’ll realize that what I actually did on the morning after the day I retired was completely different than what I thought I would do. I’ll find it more confusing, more joyful, more reflective, and more uneventful than I expected. That’s when I’ll get up from my chair, and add a little Bailey’s Irish cream to my coffee, because I can. And I’ll put my tennis shoes on, go out my front door, start walking, and ponder what I’ll do on the morning of the second day of my retirement.
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