The other thing that comes up is purpose. That is also to be expected as I pal around with people who were and still are unusually driven. Unlike my under-achieving ass.
"What?" they say, "will you do with all that time? What will be your purpose?"
I didn't know I needed one, to be completely honest.
Today, after so many days of errands and getting situated in my new rental home, is a light one. I thought I'd sip my coffee, read and watch my new vacuum robot tool around the house.
Right now, Hazel (my robot's given name) is in my office and pleasantly distracting me. I like pleasant distractions. After a lifetime of cracking marketing riddles (like Don Draper) I live for pleasant distractions as they lube up the mental synapse highway. Though not always, as Hazel is currently wrapped up and stuck with the Peloton power chord stuck in her hungry maw.
Years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Steve Lopez of LA Times fame. His exclusive beat is now covering those of us on the back nine of life on Earth. I asked him if he'd ever retire.
"No," he said, "writers never fully retire. That just goes with the territory."
I suppose he's right.
I had purpose for so many years. I delivered newspapers as a boy to have money. And because my father would never give me any.
I mowed lawns, washed dishes and flipped burgers to save money for college, again because my father wouldn't give me any and because he wanted me to go to an expensive private university.
And I hit every rung on the career ladder to feed, clothe and raise a family which was rewarding in its own right. For the most part. Where's the wink emoji?
In other words, I had purpose. For 68 years. Now I want to live less for the future and more for the present. I want to savor the moments. And write for the sole purpose of making myself laugh.
And possibly others as well.
"Take that shoelace out of your mouth, Hazel, and put the sneaker down."
I was born to be retired.
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