Silly man. Money is definitely an object, but I don’t work. Anyway. Because I am, as is my husband, retired. I know this is a difficult concept to grasp, so allow me to explain it.
When you get to a Certain Age, you are even more tired than you were during your earlier working years. You are more exhausted before you begin your work day as you formerly were after finishing it. You feel that way throughout the entire day until, at the close of business, you crawl to your car, drive home, wondering if you’ll make it. Gasping, wheezing, with accompanying soft moans, you crawl into your abode.
You look in the mirror.
“Self,” you say. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“I could retire,” you point out. “I could pack it in, take the money” and as you think this, a little bell ding-a-lings deep in your mental recesses … a bell labeled “What money?” Have you sat with HR to find out what kind of money there is in your retirement fund? Do you have a retirement fund? 401 K?
“And anyway,” you continue, “There is Social Security, right? I’ve worked hard my entire life. Surely there’s enough in there to sustain life?”
So begins the intricate dance by which you detach yourself from the working world — from whence all paychecks come. You slide into a better place where long deferred pleasures await you. The satisfaction of a hobby well done. Free time that amounts to actual freedom. The joys of life without a programmed schedule. (But alas, no paycheck.)
You get up when you like and go to bed when you choose.
Read all night till the sun come up and the cows are mooing to be milked. Watch old movies until sleep pulls you into darkness. You can blog, read, write your memoirs. Travel if money and your personal physical conditions allows. Most of us, after some initial confusion, settle down and discover that retirement is good. With its restrictions, issues, whatever … it’s very good. The best.
It is, barring ill-health (we wish we could bar ill-health!). Better than childhood because you don’t have to go to school and your parents aren’t telling you what to do. Better than your working years because you don’t have a boss telling you what to do. Better than the years of raising children because you are no long a slave to the whims of your delightful if spoiled darlings who you love more than life itself. Hopefully, l they have flown the coop and now nest elsewhere. With luck, they won’t fly back, bringing a birdie spouse and all the fledglings.
Would I work anyway? You’re kidding, right? I’d take the money because retirement and poverty, if not actually synonymous, ought to be.
But return to an office? Deadlines? Doing what I’m told or face the consequences? Schedules, on the job and off? Endless commutes? Taking ten minutes to get a sandwich, then wolfing it down while seated at the computer to the accompaniment of acid reflux?
No. I think not.