I'm a couple years shy of 65 and ready to retire. I can't wait to do all the things I don't have time for, like traveling with my husband.
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The notebook where I keep my recipes is a mess. My landline gets nothing but spam calls. And I really want to go to Italy, where I've never been.
But all those things take time to remedy — time to organize my scribbled recipes, time to call the dreaded phone company, and time off from work to visit Florence, Rome, Turin, and Tuscany. And time is something I don't have enough of right now. But soon I will, because I'm planning to retire.
At first, I thought I'd work until December 31. Then, I moved it up to October. Now I wonder if I'll make it through summer. The closer my target date gets, the farther away it seems and the more impatient I feel.
I can't wait to take long walks with my dog every day, not just on weekends. I can't wait to fix all the broken things in my apartment. And I can't wait to travel without counting vacation days.
I want more time at the beach and less time on my laptop. I want to sit on my Brooklyn stoop and enjoy the morning sun. I want to go out to lunch, midweek, with friends, or indulge in happy hour. I want to stay up late without worrying about my 8 a.m. shift. My own kids are grown, but we have lots of new babies in the family, and I want more time with them before they grow up.
I've had a good run career-wise, with 10 jobs in more than 40 years of work. My first paycheck — babysitting gigs aside — came from serving fast food to harried commuters in Penn Station. After college, I was stuffing envelopes for a nonprofit when a boss suggested I consider a career in journalism. I had aspirations to become a writer with a capital W, but I hadn't thought of the news business until then.
I ended up writing for newspapers, then for a wire service and a university. Now I'm back working in a newsroom. I hope to continue freelancing journalism after I retire, but I also still have literary aspirations. Could I write that mystery novel I've contemplated for years about a body in a lake in Maine? Could I get the play I wrote during the pandemic produced? Every time I read about a novelist breaking through late in life, it gives me hope. Maybe it's not too late to become that writer with a capital W.
A friend said he resents every year he works past 55 because his father, a teacher, was done with work by that age. Of course, in the 20th century, retiring at 55 wasn't that unusual, especially for civil servants and especially in that generation of heavy smokers. They didn't take longevity for granted. Having already outlived my mother, I don't either.
But people also retired early in that era because the cost of living was not so out of kilter with what ordinary people earned. Today, plenty of Americans say they can't afford to retire. I'm a couple of years shy of 65, so I know I'm lucky to have the savings and secure housing that allow me to give up the day job now.
On the other hand, I know people who work in their 70s because they want to. That won't be me. I'm jealous of my husband, who's already retired. He can stay up all night watching the Australian Open if he wants or go to Costco at midday when nobody's there.
There's one thing I'm reasonably sure of, though: He won't go to Italy without me.
