How often shall I retire is a question
that used to come up quite a bit. I’d
throw a retirement party. That’s what
it was. It was right there on the invite.
The next time I’d throw one it was
mostly the same people who were
sent invitations. They’d generally all
show. But nobody bothered to ask.
Retire from what? is a question that’s
been on my mind a lot lately. What
have I ever done, though? Let’s
assume that the cliché is real, that
the daily grind is a necessity that
we can otherwise just call filler.
Useless except for survival. I’m
not sure what I was thinking about
when I considered retiring. At times
I can recollect what I do and when
that happens I’m reminded that
there’s a lot of it. Do I want what
I do to end? Then what? What
will there be to do? I like that
feeling when I wake up every day
thinking time to do what’s got to
be done. There’s a lot of heart
and soul that is put into this,
the anxiety of the day, the
worrying about deadlines,
the wondering whether or not
I will have the capacity, the
steamrolling through it with
occasional confidence. I was
thinking of throwing a party.
It’s been a while. I wonder
what I’d call it. You know
how when you have a job,
you’re employed, and with
some regularity you have
these meetings that are
called performance reviews,
or somesuch? What are
your most significant
accomplishments this
year, this quarter, since
you’ve joined the firm,
whatever? There are
these measured
durations. I know I
stay busy, my work
ethic is good and I’m
certainly not out to
screw the system or
the mechanism or
anything. But that’s
a question that always
leaves me dumbfounded.
I hear it, there’s a bit of
an echo in my head as the
words bounce around in there,
and I begin to sort of burn with
embarrassment, a sensation
that starts at the bottom of
my neck and works its way
upwards. And I imagine a
decent metaphor for me when
I’ve been asked that question is
a young deer, the moment its eyes
catch sight of a pair of headlights.
