retirement – Page 2 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

The Sweetest Days

Max retired almost three years before I did. I have to admit to a smidgeon of resentment when he retired and I could not. It made no sense, as he is older than I am, was older when he retired than I would be on my planned retirement date, and he basically took over all the work of running the household after he retired. It was pretty irrational. I had no reason in the world to feel annoyed about it. I was 52 years old, bringing in a tidy paycheck, and coming home to a clean, maintained house, freshly laundered clothes, and a fully stocked refrigerator. Still, a part of me was really ticked off when I awoke violently in the middle of yesterday when the alarm clock went off and I knew he was still in bed. Sometimes I’m not a very nice person.

Within two months of my retiring, we moved 3000 miles across the country. We had not even really settled into a new retirement routine. I was still toodling around town, celebrating with one batch of friends or another. There was Thanksgiving and some early, pre-move Christmas preparations. I didn’t have time to figure out what our life was going to be once we were both retired, much less what the impact would be on our relationship. During the time I was still working after Max retired, it felt like “retirement life” was a reality, but “on hold” while we waited for me to reach the magic age of 55. I wasn’t sure the routines and activities Max had in his retirement would continue after I would be around all day. I wasn’t sure what sort of routines and activities I would do. And I really didn’t know how his life and mine would intersect. We were always very good about sharing time and fun while we were forced into a structure by our work lives. How would we accomplish that sharing once the artificial timeframes of our work lives were gone?

Once we moved, it became pretty clear that both of us were experiencing a certain amount of stress related to this major upheaval in our lives. At least, in retrospect, it is clear that we were both experiencing a certain amount of stress related to this major upheaval in our lives. I have to confess that, at the time, I just thought Max was being compulsive and annoying and I am sure that Max thought I had turned into a lazy, irresponsible grasshopper version of the industrious little ant he had known for almost twenty years.

The problem, I think, was that we learned that we both deal with stress in very different ways. I was wrong to think that Max believed that the move and all the changes were no big deal. He most definitely did find all the transition to be a big deal. It is just that Max deals with stress by trying to control the heck out of it. He tries to think of every possible problem, action, or task that could conceivably be an issue in any universe and believes in attacking each one immediately and simultaneously. If you think of everything and do everything to solve/prevent problems as soon as they enter your head, you are unlikely to be unpleasantly surprised by disaster. On the other hand, you might be exhausted, which, to me, was a disaster in itself after 33 years of working for a living and being chronically exhausted. My way of dealing with problems is to let them sit for a little bit, brainstorm some possible options to deal with them, research those options, and then decide on a plan of action. That plan of action will involve dealing with one problem at a time, celebrating the resolution of that problem, and then resting between rounds, as it were. My way means some things may never get done. Max’s way means we are constantly on hyper-alert and busy doing stuff that may never need to get done.

The other issue involved the way we make decisions. Both of us obsess in the decision-making process. We research, weigh every possible factor, and simmer in our own juices for way too long before actually settling on a decision. Often, we settle into paralysis by analysis. However, for me, the obsession does not stop when the decision is finally made. I second guess myself and mourn the road not taken with almost as much intensity as I mustered to make the decision in the first place. On the other hand, Max never looks back. Once he has made and implemented a decision, he tells himself and anyone who will listen that it the unquestionably correct one. This became a problem whenever I voiced any possible downsides of our decision or mentioned that I missed something about our old home. Max would immediately start reciting the litany of all the reasons our decision to move was the only one a rational person could possibly make. To him, I think entertaining any possible regrets felt as if the whole thing was a catastrophe. To me, not acknowledging the difficulties and the disappointments felt dismissive.

For the first six months or so after the move, the difference in our two styles was an irritant to both of us. It was uncomfortable to be at odds with one another, as we have so little practice at it. We had seldom disagreed in our twenty year relationship before this move across country. It made me kind of depressed to know that there were times when Max was not pleased with my approach or decision. I’m sure it also frustrated Max no end when what he perceived as his “rational convincing” to do something (and I perceived as “nagging”) did not move me to his way of thinking and I really could not explain why. I started snapping at him fairly regularly and he started just assuming I agreed with him about things. I guess that is a chicken and egg conundrum. I don’t really know which came first.

Then something happened. I’m not sure when or why. I think Max probably started it. We became gentler and more tender with each other. Instead of being frightened or irritated by the disconnects, we started to be more accepting of each other. We started being more visibly appreciative of what each of us brings to the relationship and what we do for each other. We started reminding each other of how much we loved each other. Our lives became more about each other again and less about the complications around us- the house, the lawn, my mother, finances, etc. There is a new easiness to the relationship- something like the joy we had when we were new to each other, but deeper and warmer and softer.

In a few weeks, Max and I will celebrate twenty years together. During that time, we have shared the death of three of our four parents, the growing up and growing old of our little mutant Welsh corgi dog, many vacations, many wonderful entertainments, health problems, career challenges, home renovation, caregiving of my mother, two retirements, and many, many other experiences I can’t even begin to name. With all that, the relationship has truly grown richer. It is sort of like warming up spaghetti sauce. It is good the first day, but it gets better as it simmers when you warm and rewarm it. There may have been times when each of us privately wondered if our “we” was going to withstand whatever was going on at the time. I think maybe our new chapter is about being more secure that, whatever ingredients the future adds to our mix, our relationship will be okay because the base of the recipe is love and respect and admiration. For me, the best place in the world to be is snuggled in his arms. He makes me feel the warmth and wholeness that comes from being truly cherished. For Max, I think being with me makes his spirit a little lighter and more joyful.

So, my darling Max, Happy Anniversary. There is no question that the sweetest days I’ve found I’ve found with you.

How did your relationship change when you retired? Were there challenges you had to overcome? How have you navigated choppy waters? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a sweet day!

Terri 🙂

Can You Still Call It A Vacation After You’re Retired?

A few months after I retired and we moved across the country, Max and I took a trip to Colonial Williamsburg. We were looking forward to exploring the Historic Triangle of Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Yorktown. We would see the remains of the first English settlement in what became the United States of America. We would watch artisans make glass, silver products, and clothing as it was made in the 1600s. We would take a carriage ride around the perimeter of the first capital of the Virginian colony and attend a re-enactment of a colonial officer’s treason trial. We would eat gingerbread made as it was in the early 1700s. We would stand at the site of the decisive battle of the American Revolution. Our plans were packed with educational and culturally enriching opportunities. And shopping. Besides the numerous gift shops adjacent to the aforementioned educational and culturally enriching opportunities, there was a large outlet mall, a huge Yankee candle megastore, and at least four multi-level shops devoted to selling Christmas decorations. Scenery, history, and shopping… what more could a girl ask for from a vacation? Maybe an amusement park? Oh, there’s a Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, too.

As we awaited the day of our departure, something was still bothering me, however. Before we left, Max kept a countdown on the number of days until our “vacation.” Every time he used the term “vacation,” something just didn’t sit right with me. I asked him if it was still called a “vacation” since we no longer had jobs and, thus, really, had nothing from which to vacate.

We tried to think of something else to call this event, but were not successful. We tried “pleasure trip,” but that seemed too cumbersome. We tried “getaway,” but thought that didn’t seem completely accurate, as there was no one chasing us. Besides, there were no criminal activities, machine guns, or speeding cars involved. Finally, we gave up and stopped calling our impending trip anything at all.

This issue of what to call this trip begged a bigger question. When we were working, this sort of trip was incredibly fun, partly because all the time spent in this riot of entertainment was time not spent working. I was worried that the trip would not hold the same appeal and enjoyment as past “vacations” now that the guilty pleasure of playing hooky from our jobs was no longer a component.

On the Sunday we arrived in Virginia, it was drizzling. We had planned to go to Busch Gardens for part of the day, since I had not realized until a few days before we left (and AFTER I had already purchased online admission tickets) that the amusement park was only open on Saturdays and Sundays at the time of the year we were going. Something weird happened, though, and I made an uncharacteristically spontaneous decision. I decided that, instead of braving the rain and racing around trying to get to Busch Gardens to use those prepaid admission tickets, we should just let it go. Max and I have a tendency to overplan things. I still refer to our first visit to Disney World as the “forced march across central Florida” because of my obsession with planning the heck out of stuff to avoid missing anything good. This fateful decision to throw Busch Gardens to the winds ended up setting the tone for the whole trip. Our pacing turned out to be just perfect. As we pursued our fun, we did not run; we meandered. Over the next five days, we saw all the sights we intended to see and more. We walked aimlessly and endlessly through beautiful, tree-lined paths and reconstructed colonial towns. We absorbed the wonderful atmosphere with the very oxygen that we breathed. We stopped at the College of William and Mary bookstore several times to browse, bask in the energy, and linger over a beverage. I spent some time each day in the hotel’s indoor pool. We ate well. I managed to purchase goods from all four of the Christmas stores. We both slept soundly and peacefully every night. Although I was not aware I was feeling any stress before we left for Virginia, I became acutely aware of the complete absence of tension during this trip. I was completely in the moment and enjoying everything as it happened.

Maybe it was a vacation after all.

A few months later, we decided to take a trip to Las Vegas, which rekindled the whole debate. This trip would not be the lazy, spontaneous type of trip Williamsburg had been. We had tickets and dinner reservations and had a pretty strict schedule of touring. As we bounded through the four days in Las Vegas, our steps were springy and our eyes were wide. Everywhere we looked, there was something different to see and everywhere we went, there was something different to do. It was like an unending buffet of activity- even when we started to get full; we gulped and savored one more bite. Still, I found myself still wrestling with the question of whether or not it is still a vacation when you no longer work for a living. I was able to resolve the dilemma by asking myself a few simple questions:

Was I cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry? No.
Was I suffering through some new house-related disaster? No.
Was I hauling my mother to medical appointments or evaluating health insurance plans for her? No.
Was I evicting less-than-cuddly wild animals from my garage? No.
Was I on vacation? YES!

So what are your thoughts? What makes a “trip” a “vacation” for you? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a great day!

Terri 🙂

The Next New Job

People ask me what it feels like to be retired. The closest analogy I have come up with is that it is like the experience you have when you are pursuing a new job.

At one point in my career, I was preparing myself to compete for my first job in middle management. You could say that getting the job was sort of the pinnacle of my career. I had several other jobs after holding that position, but all the subsequent positions were offshoots of that first middle management job.

Before I got the middle management position, I spent literally years developing myself for consideration. I was doing all kinds of things to build my skills and to enhance my visibility within the organization. I wanted the folks above me to recognize my name and think of me as a strong candidate. More importantly, I wanted to have the talent and experience to actually BE a strong candidate. I was a first line manager for almost twenty years and I spent all that time growing my skillset. I learned from my experience and from my leaders. I tried to take the best of myself and my various managers to create a quirky cocktail of a leadership style that I employed in all my first line management positions. When I began preparing for the next level in earnest, I took classes, read books, took on extra assignments, and put myself in challenging situations to grow my abilities. I applied for, was accepted into, and graduated from a “readiness” program- which is sort of like rush week and hazing for management jobs in my agency. In short, trying to get the middle management job became nearly as much of a job as my “real” job at the time.

Ultimately, I succeeded. I competed for and got that first middle management position. There may not have been a ticker tape parade exactly, but there was celebration and rejoicing. I seem to recall balloons being involved. Everyone congratulated me and wished me much happiness. Colleagues and mentors who had been helping me in my development breathed a collective sigh of relief to finally be able to wash their hands of me and let me float on my own. It was thrilling and I was quite giddy.

For the next several weeks, I became engrossed in the practicalities of getting a new job. I finished up projects and tasks that I was doing in my current position. I prepared the person who would be acting in that position until the agency selected a new permanent manager. I packed my stuff and moved to the new office. I did the administrivia necessary to get authorized on the new computer systems I would need in my new job. I explored the lay of the land in my new office.

Once I completed all this “changing of the guard” work, I found myself in a difficult situation. I had held the front line manager position, in one form or another, for such a long time. I realized that I had become a master at it. It wasn’t that it was easy for me or anything, but I certainly had developed a certain facility and confidence and momentum in executing my responsibilities on a day-to-day basis. By the time I was selected for the target middle management position, it could even be said that I had become a master at the job of getting this job. Now that I had it and the novelty had worn off, I was back to square one. I was faced with the whole new challenge of actually having to DO the job!

All of sudden, “routine” tasks and decisions were not routine. Instead of tumbling through a day of problem solving and getting things done, as I had for years in my front line management position, I found myself stumbling over each step because I found all the steps to be new to me. The steps were all in unfamiliar places now, steeper, and made of different materials than I had experienced in my former job. In my front line position, I easily contemplated the possible strategies for addressing each issue of the day and experimented with reasonable confidence that I would find a way to success. In this new position, my mind felt tight and restricted when I tried to percolate new ideas. The stakes were higher and I seemed to have less mental resources and agility to propel me towards success. As certain as I had been that I would succeed as a first line manager, I was often as certain that I would fail as a middle manager. After all, you can only use the excuse “I’m new” for a short time. As I struggled with problem-solving and fueling effective operations, I was well aware that I couldn’t just try any strategies. I had to try the right strategies to produce results. I knew that, as some point, I would have to produce the results expected of me or I would have to face the fact that I had failed… no matter how hard I had worked or how many creative strategies I tried.

Retirement was kind of like that for me. I aspired to retirement for years. I thoughtfully and strategically set up my life to prepare myself to retire. When it finally happened, there was all manner of celebrating and well-wishing. For a few weeks, my life was a whirlwind of “getting set-up.” Just like when I changed jobs and had to deal with the pragmatics and tactics such as getting on necessary computer systems and arranging my office, I spent the beginning of my retirement packing and moving and making sure the processes of my new life were in place.

After that first flurry of activity, I came face to face with the same reality I did when I actually started my first middle management position. I had no real idea of how to “work” retirement on a day-to-day basis any more than I had any idea how to “work” the middle management job on a day-to-day basis.

It wasn’t that I was unhappy in either case or that I regretted my decisions to pursue the career-defining job or to retire. In both situations, I was excited and joyful. It is just that, in both situations, I was disoriented and lacked confidence that I would ultimately right my ship and sail somewhere wonderful.

In the middle management position, I may not have hung the moon and the stars, but I think I did succeed. I am proud of my little legacy.

As time passes in my retirement, I find myself experimenting with numerous strategies and approaches to craft a success of my retirement life. I think it is working. I am less disoriented and my confidence is growing all the time. I feel like I am clicking along well on all cylinders now.

I have learned that, in retirement, unlike in that next new job, the creative strategies I employ to succeed cannot fail as long as I satisfy myself.

So what do you think? Did your retirement feel similar to transitioning to a new job? Or was your experience different? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you an email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have an exciting (in a good way!) day!

Terri

Do Storks Really Bring Babies?

The “country-ish” place where we moved when I retired is a resort community for water fowl- herons, egrets, storks, and the like.

I was never really a bird person. In fact, at the zoo, I have been heard to remark “birds aren’t real animals.” For all the bird lovers out there, please do not take offense. I am sure birds are perfectly lovely creatures. They are, doubtlessly, imperative to the ecosystem. Just personally, I could never get too revved up about them. Maybe it is because my mother is afraid of birds, having been traumatized by an avian-related incident as a child. Maybe it is because my ex-husband insisted upon bringing a loud, dirty, irritable canure parrot (appropriately named Manure), into our tiny living space. For whatever reason, birds just never held the same appeal to me as furry mammals (to clarify, furry mammals like lions and tigers and bears- not furry mammals like mice and rats and possums).

When we moved here, though, I have to say that seeing Sandhill cranes roam free around the community was pretty high on the “cool factor.” There was one pair that we saw frequently when we took afternoon walks. At least, I think it was the same pair. Sandhill cranes all sorta look alike. The two in question seemed to hang out around the same street corner every day. They were always together. They claimed their places in the universe with assertive tranquility. They were not nasty when we approached them on our walks, but did not cede their ground to us either. We walked around them and everyone was happy.

One day, though, we noted that one of the cranes was missing from their normal territory on the street corner. It did not reappear over the next couple of weeks. I was unaccountably worried about those birds. What had happened to the other crane? Was it sick? Did it die? Did they have a fight and break up? Was one crane cheating on the other? Was the remaining crane lonely? Was it sad? It just really bothered me that the pair seemed to have been separated. My concern was pretty irrational, given the relative insignificance of two Sandhill cranes in my life, but there I was. Anxiety-riddled over the disappearance of a bird.

The other day, I was driving by my crane friends’ usual stomping grounds. I would say I screeched to a halt, except that you can’t really screech when you are driving at the community’s maximum speed limit of 10 miles per hour. Both cranes were back. And, with them, was the reason that the pair had not appeared together in some time. A little baby Sandhill crane, cute as it could be. It looked like a baby duckling strapped to the top of two pencils. Apparently, spring is when a young crane’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

I can sleep again.

So, do storks really bring babies? Maybe, but Sandhill cranes certainly do!

So what are your thoughts? Spring brings change to the whole world! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂

I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart

Easter reminds me that my race is not yet run.

When I started working, I did not select my career with my Christianity in mind. To be honest, I’m not sure I selected it at all. I had just finished college with a fresh out of the oven degree in English. I was working at my minimum wage college job. I had a brand new husband, who was a full time graduate student. He needed brand new food every brand new day. When the chance for federal employment was offered, I took the job for purely temporal reasons.

That doesn’t mean that, for the 33 plus years I worked, I left my faith at the door. While my job description wasn’t particularly missionary, I believed that God expected me to live a mission. I spent my career purposely, consciously, and genuinely trying to make each decision from a place of goodness and to be a light in the world to the people I encountered. The fuel for that light was Jesus. I often fell short. I was not always a good example or a beacon of Christ’s light. I simply trusted that, when I did succeed in my mission through the wisdom and grace God granted me, the Lord would use that work to let others see Him and His love.

When I retired, I was tired and worn down in my very soul. I looked forward to my retirement as a period of rest and relaxation, my years of work being done. I did rest and it has taken a very long time for my spirit to relax. Now, I realize my work is not done. My workplace is different and the conditions are unfamiliar, but I am sure God still has a mission for me.

I believe I am called, like St. Therese of Lisieux, to live an ordinary life with extraordinary love. There is still some life left for me to fill, using God’s grace, with extraordinary love.

I am writing about reinventing myself in retirement. This Easter season, I have been journeying towards a spiritual reinvention, or, at least, a spiritual reinvigoration. I’ve been participating in a Best Lent Ever program. It is a series of daily email video reflections. It is offered through www.dynamiccatholic.com. You might want to check it out. Even non Catholics might be interested. Really, anyone with a spiritual orientation that includes Jesus, even tangentially, might find it useful.

In working on my spiritual reinvention this Lent, www.dynamiccatholic has helped me remember some valuable lessons.

When I give in to shyness and avoid people, I put my Jesus light under a bushel and miss potential opportunities to provide comfort and extraordinary love.

When I get impatient and rushed, I miss the opportunity to be absolutely present in the moment, to cherish the joy that God gives that moment.

When my heart flashes with irritation and anger, I miss the opportunity to gain understanding and closeness.

Moving forward, I know that I will forget these lessons and will fall short. I also know that God has more lessons for me. I will try to keep an open heart and be available to His teaching, as I strive to be a carrier of extraordinary love.

The real lesson of Easter, though, is that, no matter how many times I fail, I am forgiven. Jesus saw to that.

Happy Resurrection! I know that not everyone believes as I do, but Easter seems like a great time to remind ourselves that reinvention can be sacred as well as secular.

What do you think? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have a happy and blessed Easter!

Terri 🙂

Domestic Deity

I really rock at cleaning floors.

To understand the full impact of this statement, you need to understand that I grew up in a home where cleaning house meant company was coming. My mother has many, many wonderful traits, but she was a homemaker and not a housekeeper. My childhood memory of “home” is warm and loving and fun, but not clean, neat, or tidy. I don’t think anyone would ever describe my mom as a “domestic goddess.”

It wasn’t that we were too lazy to clean house. It was just that there were way too many more interesting things to do than dust, wash, polish, or sweep anything that needed dusting, washing, polishing, or sweeping. We didn’t live in squalor or anything, but having clean floors wasn’t ever a dream that seemed worth pursuing. Dog hair tended to be part of the décor. If there were too many dirty dishes in the sink, we could always use the oven to whisk them out of sight. We also were the kind of people who formed sentimental attachments to just about everything we touched, so there was always souvenirs of vacations, questionably adorable figurines, crumbling old furniture, children’s art projects, clothes worn for momentous occasions (like my first day of second grade or something), etc. hanging around creating clutter and dust bunnies.

My mother was a working mother before it was fashionable. Before that, she volunteered with the Parent Teacher Association for more hours a week than most people spend at a real job. While I think she enjoyed working outside the home, I have a sneaking suspicion that part of her motivation for getting a job was to have a socially acceptable excuse to not do something as boring as housework.

When I began living on my own, I intended to replicate the housekeeping habits of the women I saw on reruns of 1950s television shows. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that I was failing miserably. I either missed the housekeeping gene or just never learned how to do housework in a way that would efficiently and effectively result in a clean, tidy house. Who knows if it was nature or nurture, but I began storing dirty dishes in the oven within an embarrassingly short time. I spent most of my adult life trying to do better, with almost no success.

When I retired and was getting ready to move, I was a little worried. I was going from a tiny one-bedroom, one-bathroom 600 square foot condominium to a 1500 square foot, 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house. Since I was never very successful in keeping 600 square feet clean, how would I cope with so much more space?

As it turns out, the answer is pretty darn well. I have found that having the extra space is actually helpful. There are more places to put things. Our clothes actually fit in the closets and bureaus and don’t end up on the floor. The garage can not only house two cars, but has shelving for items such as Christmas decorations. Being retired also means that taking half an hour to clean a bathroom or an hour to dust isn’t anywhere near as onerous as when I was working for a living and really resented housework for eating up my few moments of unscheduled time.

And the floors. In my little condo, I had carpet through most of the rooms. There is very little satisfaction in vacuuming carpeting. Pretty much, the floors look the same after you vacuum as they did before. You never really know if the carpets are clean. My new home has hardwood in most of the rooms. When we first moved in, I was a little intimidated by those floors and put off doing anything other than sweeping them. Finally, I decided to just throw caution to the wind and try to do a deeper cleaning. I swept, dust-mopped, applied hardwood floor cleaner, and, ultimately, hardwood floor restorer and polisher. Those floors absolutely glowed when I was done. I felt soooo accomplished. I was taking pictures of the newly cleaned floors and sending them to everyone who knew me. I faced my fear of housework and prevailed.

The really big lesson in my journey to becoming a domestic goddess is something I learned in the workplace years ago. Quality is “fit for use.” In other words, if my home is reasonably sanitary and the air is breathable and the occupants feel comfy and happy, whatever level of housework that has been done is quality. I am the queen of my own domesticity and, if I can look out over my realm and be happy, that is the triumph.

Maybe my mother was a domestic goddess after all.

What are your thoughts? I’d love to hear your perspective. Please leave a comment and share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. Have a terrific day!

Terri 🙂

Should Shoulder Rolls Be Audible?

One of my goals in retirement was to get more exercise. Despite the fact that I am a middle aged, mostly sedentary, overweight diabetic, whose preferred form of exercise is pushing buttons on the TV remote control, I decided that retirement was going to be my motivation to become the picture of health- eating right, moving my body, soaking in the sunshine, and fairly glowing with righteous wholesomeness. Well, not so much. Still, I thought it was time to exercise more than just my imagination.

I joined a water aerobics class when I moved to my new home in the sticks. For some bizarre reason, I decided to begin in January. The morning temperature when I scurried from the car to the pool was about 45 degrees. The pool is indoors and heated (I’m not completely crackers), but there was still the commute from car to pool and pool to car with which to contend. The commute from the pool to the car was infinitely more difficult because, even though the temperature was an hour warmer, I was an hour wetter. The class consisted of about 6 die-hards that participated as long as the temperature was over 40 degrees at the time the class began. There is one attendee, who I have dubbed “The Woman Who Never Shuts Up,” who barely moves any part of her body except her mouth during the hour long class. Two or three other attendees sway a little bit, but are obviously there to listen with rapt attention to every story and pearl of wisdom she spews forth while the instructor soldiers on, trying to make her directions heard over the din.

For a little while, I sort of alternated between the water aerobics and a “dry land” walking aerobics class the community also offered. In the minds of most sane people, I’m sure walking around a climate controlled auditorium to music seems the more reasonable option when the temperature is 45 degrees. However, one main factor settled me finally on the water aerobics class. You don’t sweat in the water.

The class is offered three times a week. I average once a week, despite my best intentions. Still, as time marches on and the class expands (now that the temperature has warmed up, there are about 15-20 attendees), I can feel some results. The Woman Who Never Shuts Up still, well, never shuts up. It just doesn’t bother me as much. I understand now that the time goes quicker when people chat during the class. Also, now that there are more people actually exercising, I have more people to watch to learn the movements. I think I’m probably exercising more efficiently and flaying about less. I do feel a modicum of strength and endurance that I haven’t felt for some time. I feel muscles stretching and expanding as I do the exercises. When I finish a session, I feel more relaxed and healthy.

This is not to say that I am the well-oiled machine I visualized. There is one stretching exercise that involves bending a knee back behind me and holding my ankle with my hand to keep my foot firmly against my butt. This seems physiologically impossible for me. I am pretty sure I am not meant to grow a bigger butt to reach the foot and I think my days of growing longer legs to reach my butt are- you should excuse the expression- behind me.

Then there is the series of “bottle exercises.” The idea is to use an empty half-gallon milk bottle in each hand and do some exercises while floating on the water. I have a sneaking suspicion that, if one has any level of firmness in the core muscles, one will remain in pretty much the same location while doing these “bottle exercises.” After maneuvering around the whole pool numerous times while attempting to do the movements without drowning, I capitulated and started hanging on to the side of the pool behind me while doing the exercises.

And then there are the shoulder rolls. Among the stretches we do at the beginning and end of class are shoulder rolls. As I roll my shoulders in little circles to the front and to the back, I am first struck by how good it feels. Then, to my horror, I realize I CAN HEAR THEM! Click, click, click. I am pretty certain you aren’t supposed to be able to hear your muscles move. When did this happen? Maybe it is Morse code for something. Maybe something like…. This is what happens when your preferred form of exercise for 30 some years is pushing buttons on the TV remote control!

So what do you think? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂

Be Careful What You Wish For

One of my dreams about retirement was that I would never again have to deal with anyone with whom I didn’t want to deal. This was a comforting thought all those years when I was working trying to appease unhappy customers, motivate recalcitrant employees, and calm agitated executives.

Unfortunately, the reality is significantly different from my dreams. Since retiring and moving, I have had to deal with multiple people with whom I would rather not deal. Here is a partial list of them:

The junk guy I hired to haul away the leftover boxes from moving

The electric company guy

The gas company guy

The cable guy

The internet guy

The tree trimmer guy

The first sod guy

The second sod guy (once the first guy’s sod died rather immediately and spectacularly)

The lawn treatment guy

The electrician guy

The second electrician guy (after the first electrician guy inherited a bunch of money and called in rich before completing my job)

The sprinkler guy

The first handyman guy who replaced the large steps at my mother’s mobile home with tiny little steps she could manage

The second handyman guy I hired to take away the rubble left by said first handyman guy who replaced the mobile home stairs

The home warranty guy

The air conditioner guy

And the list goes on.

It isn’t that any of these are bad people. In fact, most of them are very nice. Or at least, they say “yes ma’am” a lot which is not, I realize, strictly speaking, the same thing. Still, I would rather people say “yes ma’am” and at least appear sympathetic than snarl in my face. Also, I did genuinely like most of these folks. The problem is that I’d rather not spend my time, money, and energy fixing the problems these people represent.

Also, these vendors in this new community don’t exactly have a sense of urgency in responding to their customers’ requests (or at least this customer’s requests). They are also pretty optimistic, which is a euphemism for “living in a fantasy world,” when they tell you how long it will take to complete jobs. I think making an appointment to show up at any given time is always contingent upon how the fishing is that day.

Another of my dreams of retirement was moving to a place where the pace of life was a bit slower and I didn’t have to do everything in the most efficient way humanly possible. That dream has come true. It is nice not doing everything in the most efficient way humanly possible. The thing is- no one else does, either.

Now it’s your turn! What are your thoughts? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂

Moving Day

About three years before I planned to retire from my job in the southwest part of the country, I purchased a house in the southeast part of the country.

To fully grasp the significance of that statement, you probably need to know something about my general disposition. I am probably the most risk averse person on the face of the planet. I took an extremely responsible federal job in 1981 that paid the paltry sum of $10,900 per year solely because I figured I would never have to worry about getting laid off or eating cat food when I was old. Any extra money I ever had went into a plain old savings account. I own one share of stock, in the Disney Corporation, not because it was financially sound, but because I thought the ornamentation on the stock certificate was appealing. When employees all over the federal government were converting their old, tired defined benefit retirement plans to more aggressive investment plans, I stuck with the original plan. The last time I moved anywhere was in 1991 when I purchased a tiny condominium located less than five miles from the rental property where I was living at the time. I never turned that condo over for a detached home when the real estate boomed or busted.

This fiscal conservatism served me well. Through inflation, gradual progression and promotion, and, frankly, simple longevity, I ended my career making about 17 times the annual salary I made when I started. The savings accounts, while not resulting in huge wealth, are liquid and secure. The tiny little condo ultimately increased in value by about $80,000 in the time I owned it. And the Tinker Bell graphic on the Disney stock certificate graces the wall in my new home very nicely. As to the tired old defined benefit plan, it enabled me to retire right on schedule. Many of the people who changed plans to take advantage of the nineties stock bubble are postponing their retirement now because the bubble burst.

All this goes to show that purchasing a house 3000 miles away to rent out while I was awaiting my retirement was completely out of character for me. However, real estate prices and interest rates were way down and I happened upon a real estate agent in the new location whose main line of business was managing rental properties. She also had a history of living near our home in the old location. If I was ever going to take a chance, this seemed to be a good one to take. Since I had saved a nice chunk of change to put down on the house as a result of “practicing” paying another mortgage, I was confident that I could afford the house even if I did not get tenants. I wasn’t thrilled to have the house sitting vacant, so I did have a few anxious months until the property manager found tenants. After that point, everything was easy. The rent, minus the property management fees, went into an account every month and the mortgage payment magically deducted itself from the same account every month, as did the HOA fees. Once in a great while, I wrote a check for some insurance or some minor repairs. I even had positive cash flow. The only pain was doing my income tax return to show the rental income and expenses.

In fact, things went along so swimmingly, I sort of forgot that, one day, I would be turning my life upside down, moving 3000 miles from my little one bedroom condo in the west, and taking up residence in that rental property.

The neighborhood where Max, my longtime boyfriend and POSSLQ (Person of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters), and I were living in my tiny little condo had been declining over the past several years. The real estate bubble burst rather messily, leaving quite the aftermath in our quiet little community. Many of the owners, wanting to move on to detached houses but unable to sell their condos for what they thought appropriate, rented their small units. They were not too particular about who paid the rent, as long as someone did. Noise, crime, and general shadiness increased. The police visited as frequently as the UPS truck. Sometimes, we were the ones inviting them to stop by, when the neighbors’ “disagreements” seemed to cross the line to “potentially dangerous domestic disputes.” People also often hosted parties on their patios, during which the entertainment seemed to involve the guests regaling each other with tales of their various criminal activities. Since drunkenness doesn’t exactly come with a volume control, we heard it all… at any hour of the day or night. The people below us, who seemed to be away from home at least 13-14 hours a day, had two yappy yorkies. The people insisted the yorkies did not bark, or, if they did, they barked no more than average dogs. Technically, they might have been right. It wasn’t so much barking as ear-piercing screeching that went on for literally hours some days. However, in my mind, the real issue was HOW WOULD THEY HAVE KNOWN IF THEIR DOGS WERE BARKING, SINCE THEY WERE NEVER HOME?!

In short, the neighborhood transformed. It changed from a quiet community of young married couples and older retired people into something resembling a compound of frat houses. During that iteration, we tried to ignore the irritants, but ignoring things became more difficult when Max retired and was exposed to the issues all day long. Ultimately, the transformation took a more sinister turn and the frat house occupants started talking about guns and drugs and beating each other to a pulp.

With all this being said, one would think I would have been anxious to go. Max certainly was. In the year before my retirement, he kept counting down the days until we could move. He researched television cable and satellite companies near the new home. He studied possible internet companies. He made decisions about these items like A YEAR before the planned move. He made frequent suggestions that maybe it was time to check out realtors, contract moving companies, and put the condo on the market. I really wasn’t ready. The condo still felt like it was home to me. I didn’t feel any need to begin the moving process months and months before it was actually going to happen. Plus, remember that my rental property in the southeast was doing just fine and I had kind of forgotten that I was one day actually going to live there.

Still, I agreed that it wouldn’t hurt anything for Max to begin working on the moving issues, which he did with great aplomb. Finally, I yielded to pressure and interviewed a couple of realtors… six months before our expected move date. I agreed to put the condo on the market because the realtors all said it was a good idea to have the house for sale during the summer, but I didn’t believe it would actually sell any time soon because I couldn’t see anyone buying the condo and waiting for six months to occupy. I had no intention of vacating the premises before our ultimate move across the country.

Silly me. The condo actually sold within a week of listing. The buyer was purchasing the condo with an occupant mortgage but said he was fine with waiting until December to move in. It soon became clear that he had no intention of ever residing there. He was buying it to rent and was perfectly happy to have built-in tenants for six months. So, I would be paying rent on my own house for months before moving! Okay, I know that it was no longer my house after I received the very healthy purchase price from the escrow. That transaction not only paid off the remaining mortgage on the condo, but also allowed me to pay off the mortgage on the house on the other side of the country. A rational person could not argue that the condo was “mine” any longer. It still felt very, very odd to write that rent check every month… and that probably also helped me let go of the “home” place the condo had in my heart.

There were other factors in the last several months in the condo that helped ease the blow of actually leaving. Because we had packed away much of my “stuff” when we put the condo on the market, most of my personal thumbprint was buried in storage and a safety deposit box. For several months, when I looked around the condo, I no longer saw my history. Those four walls became a place to sleep, watch TV, and make millions of arrangements for the big move. That space was no longer where my life happened. In the last few weeks, there were so many things happening, between my retirement celebration and the impending move, I didn’t really have time to think about what it would be like to be gone. In short, the emphasis of our lives was on the process of leaving, not the result.

Still, when the day actually came for us to begin our great adventure and the movers finally removed everything left in the condo, it wasn’t easy. Max and I stood in the empty condo and I looked around a last time. I remembered how it felt when I first moved in, some 23 years before. I was so proud and so happy and so excited. I bought the condo all by myself and I pleased only myself. When Max moved in about a dozen years ago, it was because his presence increased my joy. Many of the people I loved who have since passed from this life spent time with me in this condo. My father, who died in 1996, spent a couple of weeks with me when I first moved in, doing odd jobs and helping make the place home for me. I raised my little welsh corgi mutant here and she went to doggy heaven as I sat on this floor and held her in my arms. My work life morphed from a job to a career during the time I lived here. I met the love of my life while living here. In this condo, I first learned how to be truly happy with myself and evolved into the person I am today.

The moment of nostalgia was intense, but it passed as suddenly as it had come. I shed a tear or two, but never felt the hurt I expected to feel. It was a little disorienting to walk out the door, but not particularly painful. I think, as I looked at the empty condo, I realized that the history I made there was not in the space, but in my heart. And I am taking my heart with me, wherever I go.

So what are your thoughts? Please leave a comment to share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri 🙂

The Elephant in the Room

Most of the people I know struggle with one major obstacle in deciding when/if to retire. Can they afford it? We might as well face it. Money is a big deal. Few companies offer retirement benefits any more. If the recession/depression of a few years ago proved nothing, it proved that our own sense of our economic stability can be fleeting. People are living longer and their money must go further. Medical costs are rising. Social Security benefits on their own aren’t usually enough to provide the lifestyle most people want. Additionally, many people look forward to having the time in retirement to do things they don’t have time to do while they are working. Typically, those things cost money.

I may not be the best person to comment on the economics of deciding when to retire because I am one of the few people still blessed with an employer-sponsored defined benefit pension. While nothing is completely guaranteed in this life, my government pension is about as secure as it gets. Also, I am far from a financial expert. I would not presume to give anyone advice on how to evaluate all the economic ramifications in making the very personal and complex decision about when to retire.

What I am an expert on, however, is worrying.

When I was thinking about retirement and trying to decide if I could make it work economically, I did the computations every which way to Sunday. In every scenario, it seemed clear that I would be fine. Still, I could not get over the feeling that I was somehow missing a key consideration and would end up destitute, eating cat food for Thanksgiving dinner. As worriers tend to do, I came up with some strategies to try to control the thing which I feared. While my strategy did not completely end my anxiety, it helped a lot. I thought I’d share what I did, in case any of you world class worriers out there might find them helpful.

I call it my “Three Ps” plan to financially confident retirement. Note that none of these “three ps” actually involve amassing any wealth, changing the amount of money you have, or saving on expenses. Smarter, more financially savvy people than I can probably tell you how to save and grow your retirement funds. I am going strictly from the point of view that “it is what it is.”

Plan

Create a tentative budget for living expenses, based on what you currently spend. Make sure to include regular savings to build an emergency fund. You may not need to save as much as you do while working, since you are no longer “saving for retirement,” but you can’t just start spending willy-nilly without saving anything for a rainy day (remember, I’ve moved to the southeast where there are many, many rainy days!) Then consider what is it that you really want to do in retirement and how much money will it take to live the way you want? Be realistic. Many people say they want to travel in retirement. But do you really think you will or is it just something you say because you don’t know what else to do? If you do want to travel, what would that look like? A lavish beach vacation once a year? A six-month tour around the world that will likely never be repeated? A constant caravanning hither, thither, and yon to visit friends and family? And will those friends and family members feel obliged to put you up when you are there hithering and thithering and yonning, thus saving you the cost of a hotel? If there is a hobby you want to pursue, will there be ongoing expenses associated with it or is the cost mostly to obtain equipment, which you may already have? Whatever you decide is important, make sure you include funding your retirement dreams in your living expense budget. If it turns out that your retirement income will not stretch far enough to cover those dreams, you can determine how much longer you need to work to fund them. Then, you decide if your dream to travel or take up polo is a bigger dream than your dream to stop working right now. Only you can decide that.

Pay off your mortgage

Admittedly, this may not be a strategy that everyone can employ. It might not even be the smartest use of money (remember my caveat on not being a financial expert), but there is a huge intangible benefit. No longer paying that mortgage, usually the largest of all the bills we pay, is incredibly liberating. You suddenly have all of this money every month. If nothing else, you are assured of being able to afford shelter, a basic human need. After all, once the mortgage is paid, that roof over your head is all yours. Of course, sometimes that roof needs to be repaired and you need to account for those maintenance and carrying costs, but mortgage is the real killer expense.

Practice

For several years before I actually retired, I “practiced” living on the amount of money I calculated to be my retirement income and saved the rest of my salary and other work-related funds. The benefits of this practice were twofold. First, I built up a nice little nest egg that I used, in part, to put the down payment on the home I bought for retirement (which I paid off when I sold the home I had in my old state). Because of this savings, I also knew I had a nice little cushion built up to tide me over any delays in actually getting my correct pension. Secondly, living on only the money I expected to have in retirement proved to me that I could live and live reasonably well on the pension I expected. This was a terrific confidence-builder and security blanket as I “took the plunge” into retirement. Now, many people might not be able to live on what they expect to have in retirement while they are still working because they are still paying expenses that they do not expect to have in retirement- like a mortgage if you are going to be paying it off before or when you stop working or college tuition if you are waiting for that last child to graduate before you retire. You can still employ this “practice” strategy. Figure out how much you are paying for those expenses that will be retiring from your budget when you retire from your job and add that amount to the amount you expect to have in retirement income. Then, live on that total and bank any employment-related funds above that “expected pension plus expenses that will get to stop paying at retirement” amount. Even if there is nothing left over to bank, this exercise will give you the opportunity to really analyze whether the income you will have in retirement will be sufficient to fund the life you want to live.

At the end of the day, it is a scary and exhilarating decision to leave employment income. While we dream of the day we can retire and enjoy the life we worked hard to attain throughout our careers, that elephant in the room trumpets financial doubts pretty loudly to those of us who tend to worry. On the other hand, maybe it isn’t an elephant at all. Maybe it is just our own insecure, self-doubting selves causing a ruckus over nothing. I think the best strategy is just to think things through, analyze your finances realistically, and then…. Just Trust…. Yourself.

Terri 🙂

So what are your thoughts? Please leave a comment to share your perspective. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.