At a certain age, people start asking what your retirement plans are going to look like. I’m at that age. The chattering is starting even though I still have a son in high school. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m negotiating curfews and at the same time fielding retirement inquiries. It feels much like when well-intentioned but irritating strangers ask what your post-high school plans are going to look like. Or when you’ll get married. Or where you will live. Or if you’ll have a baby. My answer to all of the above was/is — I don’t know.
Literally, no clue on the retirement question. And I’m not talking about the economics of it. Everyone has all sorts of different circumstances. I’m talking about how and where to spend the span of time. How will we spend the time? I’m talking about what will the days look like without kids, sports, insane schedules, yard work, house projects, pleading with anyone to walk this dog, and all of these fixed patterns we have lived in for so very long. It’s hard to remember the before. And I like routines.
I feel a bit of pressure to come up with the correct answer, but I’m not sure what the correct answer is. Maybe it’s time to get back to work on what is next. If I take my cues from generations before me, it offers options (some quite dismal) but no insights on what to do in preparation.
For example, my paternal grandmother was widowed at fifty-five and retired at age sixty-five from her secretarial job. She told me she deeply regretted retiring so early, but that was expected at that time. She enjoyed her job and coworkers but, more importantly, ended up living thirty-three more years. A very long stretch to live alone and fill the days. My dad didn’t live long enough to officially retire at all. Not a great option either. Therein lies the problem, nobody can see around the corner.
When some of my friend’s parents retired, they immediately fled south, spending their winters in warmth. Many eventually adopted a no-snowblower lifestyle permanently. As an outside observer, that doesn’t appeal to me. There is no universe where my husband and I will find ourselves in a planned community, wearing athleisure, alternating playing golf and pickleball with neighbors, and having a Martini each day at 4pm. It’s just not “us.” But what is “us” when we have been doing the same thing for decades?
But as I’m mulling this over, I heard an interview on the radio with a psychologist who specializes in ‘psychological richness.’ Their research demonstrates how novel experiences and pushing ourselves to do and eat and see and attempt new things improve life satisfaction and happiness. And unique experiences can contribute to longevity. He was talking to me. I am known to order the same thing at my favorite places, not wanting to risk it. I don’t even want to take a chance on an unfamiliar chicken sandwich.
Yet I have spent years giving pep talks to my kids about exploring the world. Trying something new. Learn something new. Exploring their options. I need to start giving myself the pep talk.
Could we do something crazy? Do we still have it in us to entertain wild ideas that might make no sense to anyone else? We have always cut our own path. I really feel a surge of energy when I think about it. It’s a sign. Maybe we move overseas and volunteer in a school? Maybe we go live near a national park and hike every day? Learn cribbage? We could spend Thanksgiving in the Maldives? Spend a summer living in a remote cabin in Alaska? Play pickleball like everyone in America?
Maybe the secret is just to keep making the plans. I can start small now to prepare.
I will try the unique chicken sandwich. And I could be talked into buying a tennis dress.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.