by shelley fralic
“you’re retiring? why? won’t you be bored?” the questions, usually uttered in one breathless sentence, along with a look of confused disbelief, are delivered in a high-pitched, incredulous tone, as if in divulging your intention you have somehow caused offence, akin to defecting from the ranks after decades of faithful membership in an exclusive club.
the reaction is especially so if you are not yet 65, the age at which the average baby boomer was predestined to willingly hand over the keys to the kingdom to the next generation and head out in the airstream, compartments stuffed with defined-benefit pension cheques.
i retired at 63. i had never planned to work beyond 65 and when, after 41 years in the newspaper business, a generous buyout offer came up, i took the money and ran. loved my job, but i was done.
there was shock and awe in my small orbit.
what was i thinking? giving up a great career, good money, pensionable years, extended benefits. surely i was mad. and, good lord, what would i do with myself all day long? the answer to that last question was easy: nothing. make no mistake: there is pressure upon retirement to do otherwise. one must have a purpose. there shall be no wasting of the day, no lollygagging in the remaining years. after all, we are the pigs in the python, that unholy hump of slowly digesting populous on modern history’s timeline, the midas-touched generation for whom all things were golden. jobs, housing, pensions, health — our wealth has been measured, like none before us, by the twin gods of longevity and economic ease.