Retirement

A sign for my time of life

Ellen and I were strolling through Tohono Chul park, Tucson’s Eden with saguaros, a tea room and well-dressed hummingbirds, when we spied a sign in front of a sad patch of garden. A nod to the promise of the Spring yet to come, the small sign read, “Not dead, just resting.”

With my retirement in mind, my dear Ellen suggested that I might wear such a sign around my neck the next time I head to the hammock or sofa to remind my concerned friends and loved ones that I’m not dead.

I’m just resting.

Very funny, Ellen.

On January 1st, the day of my retirement, I began listing the next big events in my life, after retirement, and the only really big event looming in my future that I could come up with was “Death”.

I burned that entire legal pad.

One month into retirement I can report I’m not dead. And I am not resting. I have not had a %#?! moment to rest.

So many eulogies to deliver. So little time! And the next well-intentioned soul who, like the man, in the movie “The Graduate”, who told young Dustin the answer to life was “Plastics”, the next silver alert who puts his arm around me and says “pickle ball” is going to get socked in the catheter.

I am finding the one downside of a full and satisfying life is the curse of happiness.

Being happy most of the time makes the time fly by much too fast. And we Irish fatalists do not do well with happiness. I fear if I declare aloud that I am having a beautiful day I am inviting a bolt of well deserved lightning to scorch my contentment.

If only I could be miserable so that time would drag. Like when I was seven when I swore that by October it would take Christmas morning a full calendar year to arrive. A full day would pass between each tick and tock.

At 67 I refuse to blink or else next Christmas will arrive tomorrow. If not sooner. At this rate, before I know it, I’ll be dead. Note to Ellen: I want bagpipes and mariachis at my wake. Surely the purpose of an Irish Wake is to wake the dead. If you love me, woman...

Alas, truth be told, I’d rather be happy.

I owe my happiness to the best life coach, the finest teacher I know: Death.

Death, the tutor among the tombstones, is quite the educator. Lesson number one: Never tell anyone how to grieve. Grief becomes a part of us, revealing lessons for the living, at its own pace, unexpected moment by unexpected moment. Lesson Two: The person who says you’ll eventually get over it and move on is a sociopath.

The ever-present awareness of my mortality is the best motivator I know to embrace what time remains on the grim reaper’s stopwatch. With cheerful delusion, foolish relish and vigor. I relish the aches, the pains, the joy, the laughter, the fear, the despair, the grief and all my sorrows. And the fight to repair the world, undefeated by futility. Death is my Drill Sergeant barking at me to “Get moving. What do you have to lose? You may as well go for it. Move! Now! Now! Now!” The old bastard is always there, whispering, “You only go round once. Unless you’re a Buddhist.”

Death is right. After this post I’m going to go round to my backyard and head for my hammock. Embracing life with relish and vigor and foolishness is exhausting. And Ellen, if you come upon me, I’m not dead, my love. Just resting.