Retire: to go to Bed

     When they ask me if  I'm enjoying retirement, they want to her that I love it, that I don't miss work and have never been busier.  I hesitate with my answer.  I like it as much as I have ever liked my life.

     Sometimes I miss the getting ready rush, the short shower, quick comb, hurried lip-sticking of my mouth in the mirror;  the instant comradery of strangers at the gas pump: nice day, gonna rain, never can tell;  the big hello from the front desk, thank God you're here, looks like a tough day;  noon lunch in the lounge where we trade our simple household stories, show family photos and share a loud laugh;  the feel-good ride home, made all the lights, what's for supper, the rescue of the weekend, the certainty of Monday morning's routine again.

     

     Now, where's the rush?

     What is really worth doing today?

     Why get out of bed at all?                                                                                                                

Would anyone notice if the newspaper lay all day in the driveway, unread, never unrolled?  If flower bed weeds crawled rampant, dust left streaks on the piano, food molded in the frig?

     I would like to be missed, sought after, paid again for a job I thought no one else could do.  I met my replacement: pretty, barely out of high school, bright smile, lovely hair, no gray.  She was quick to catch on.  "Nothing to it," she chirped.  "I think I'm ready to take over.  Enjoy your retirement," she gushed as I pushed out the office door, into the world of appearing to be busy, useful, calendar full, the hard work just beginning.