...don't give up the day job

Well, it’s been 62 days … that’s the longest I’ve gone without reporting to a job in darn near 50 years.

I’m not used to it yet.

It seems that a day doesn’t pass without somebody asking me, “How’s retirement?” – usually with a distinct tinge of envy if they’re among those still drawing a regular paycheck.

If I was to answer that with a high degree of honesty – which I confess I often do not since entering into a fairly involved philosophical discussion with grocery carts double parked in the produce aisle is generally inappropriate – my likely response would be “odd,” and if the outstanding activity of the day had been listening to the dog snore, with the addendum, “don’t give up the day job…”

Yeah, for me, this has been an odd couple of months. To, overnight, go from the daily hurly-burly of breaking news, encroaching deadlines and a demanding public to the tranquility of the endless weekend leaves a guy feeling a bit like Wiley Coyote over the cliff and suddenly suspended in mid-air. I keep waiting for “beep-beep” and the inevitable unexpected.

Meanwhile, I’m finding that old habits die hard. The eyes creep open about the same time they’ve grudgingly crept open for the past 30 years. I still use three scoops of coffee and the same amount of water, the same coffee cup and the same spot to peruse the morning papers. The same shampoo is in the shower; I still listen to MPR at lunchtime and the dog nags me to go out and then to bed the same time as always.

But then there are all those intervening hours…

I’d like to claim that having all that unscheduled time has given me the opportunity to accomplish those things that have long been pushed onto the proverbial back burner, but no. There are dishes in the sink, clutter in the fridge, and preheating the oven still sets off the smoke alarms. I remain indifferent to dust bunnies; reject the allegation that my shower can become dirty though contact with the soap and water that preserves my social acceptably; and question the need for floors to be spic and span when I’m just going to walk all over them anyway. Having ample time to tidy up hasn’t instilled a penchant for tidiness … nor has it moved me to head for the gym, attend daily Mass, or become a particularly persistent practitioner of the Corporeal Virtues.

On the other hand, I believe I’ve also restrained my proclivity toward a number of the Deadly Sins. I’m still eating no more than three meals a day – with the occasional late night nosh as per previous practice. I’ve not yielded to the lure of Netflix at noon, nor prowling Facebook into the wee hours.

And on the positive side, I’ve been able to go with Dad to some medical appointments followed by unhurried lunches and hours of talk of the past and of the future. I’ve had time to lend a hand and an ear to friends and pick up a book or two I otherwise hadn’t had time for.

Still, there’s always the temptation to sleep late and drink heavily.

After years of navigating the main channel, I’m suddenly bobbing about in the backwaters, and though the scenery can be lovely and the respite momentarily refreshing, it really doesn’t lead anywhere.

Which is a bit disconcerting … a bit like death’s waiting room. Not a place I care to be.

Which is why I’d describe this experience as “odd.” I’m not missing the strictures of the workday and workweek, nor the obligation to tug the forelock, say “Yessir” and kiss the otherwise unkissable; but, like the song says, “ya don’t know whatcha got ‘till it’s gone…”

One of those books I’ve picked up included an essay by the old Roman Stoic, Seneca. Entitled “On Leisure,” he makes the case that life satisfaction lies in being useful, in doing worthwhile things. Sixty-odd days of leisure have convinced me that observation holds now as much as it did two millennia ago. So the challenge now is to discover usefulness on my own terms; new adventures to replace the security and satisfaction of  “the day job” I’ve left behind.

Gotta be better than listening to the dog snore. Gotta be.