Category: Learning

With lots of hobbies and interests, I figured I was immune from the threat of losing my sense of identity in retirement. I’ve read this is common among men, but as a career woman, I suppose I’m equally at risk.

While it’s true I’m not bored, and I don’t miss the job or the stressful lifestyle, I do feel a sense of loss. Much as I like the writing of Brené Brown, who says we are enough simply by being, I’m never enough. I’m having a hard time letting go of the idea my life is only as good as my achievements.

I sometimes lack confidence, but I make up for it (or compensate for it?) with deep internal drive. One could argue I have a lot of baggage to unpack, but I like to put a positive spin on my shortcomings. My drive is the fuel that keeps me going when others run out of gas.

The writer Edna Ferber said, “Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.” I’ve wondered if that philosophy can apply to the loss of identity in retirement. Should I just chill out, enjoy what time is left and start the slow slide into the great unknown?

Probably not. I do not believe I’ve reached my full human potential, and part of me says never surrender. But another part of me is open to the idea maybe you have to give up who you thought you were to become who you are supposed to be. Maybe retirement was the only thing that could push me out of my comfort zone and into a future that is beyond anything I dreamed of.

Whew, kind of deep, but I think about shit like this when I am supposed to be sleeping. I’m not sure where I will land, but I suspect balance is a good thing to strive for in retirement … I do want to appreciate my perseverance and be all I can be, but I also want to enjoy the gift of life with no strings attached.

Although I feel under-accomplished, if I really think about it, I’ve done a lot in my life. Overcame a slow start in childhood and served in the Armed Forces, married for love and still at it 40 years later, graduated from college, earned a good living using my skills and talents, lost 60 pounds and kept it off, survived cancer twice and retired at age 62 with enough savings to live modestly without working again.

Make a list, and you’ll see you are more accomplished than you think.

I’m just entering my second year of retirement. The first year was a period of adjustment with no alarm clock and the joy of being free from all the crap that goes on in the workplace. This year I want to focus more on my transition to Donna 2.0.

In Donna 2.0, I see my tenacity as a good thing, my superpower, that can help me live a long and healthy life. But I’m not going to let it fill me with illusions about what it means to be successful. Maybe I’ll just take that word out of my vocabulary and use my superpower to liberate me from my own expectations, to do what feels good and see what happens.

Starting today! No lists, no goals. Just cupcakes.

Dale and I are among the mighty few who still subscribe to a newspaper – two, actually. The local paper used to be somewhat renowned, but times are tough for newspapers, and our daily read is pretty skinny. We also subscribe to the paper copy of the The Washington Post, which provides broader coverage.

We still go out to the driveway to pick it up. Our current delivery person is excellent – the paper is always there way before 7 a.m. I will be sending a holiday bonus. A previous delivery person was habitually late, and I would be camped out in the driveway pacing and waiting. I called and called until finally someone more punctual took over.

In my infinite generosity, I give Dale the front page first. We pass sections back and forth over the breakfast table, sometimes interrupted by our cat, who loves to sit on top of whatever you are trying to read. We both love the food section. I read obituaries and advice columns, and I seek out crossword puzzles and all variety of what might be called soft news. Dale calls it fluff. If the section is called Style or Entertainment, I’m in.

However, Dale religiously reads the comics. Every single one of them, even the ones that suck. I don’t read the comics. It’s some sort of impairment. Against my will, Dale will read aloud from one of the strips, trying to make me see the humor, and sometimes I actually do.

For example, Dale told me about a line from the comic strip Pearls Before Swine. In short, after a discussion about all the things we eat that aren’t good for our health, the character in the strip says he does it anyway.

“Because life is an amusement park.

And while you’ll stay there longer, all the rides will be closed.”

I laughed out loud, but damn, that hits close to home.

Then it was my turn. From the fuzzy animal section, I shared news that a female lion in the Indianapolis Zoo killed her boyfriend. Or mate, or whatever they call him. The father of her three cubs. They’d been together eight years. As I read it to Dale, we learned it was highly unusual for a female to dominate like that, and they don’t really understand what happened.

Dale said he probably left the toilet seat up.

Our local paper also reprinted a feature about NPR’s Terry Gross originally published in The Washington Post. The interviewer said, “You’ve interviewed tens of thousands of guests. Can you share any advice from any of your guests that has particularly affected you?”

This was her response:

Live your life, live your life, live your life.

She said it was a quote from Maurice Sendak, who was nearing death when he said it. She continued:

I do that mantra a lot. It’s just so easy to get caught up in the problems of day-to-day life, that you forget to kind of pull back a little and put everything in perspective and realize it’s the only life you have and make the best of it.

I like my shrinking morning newspaper, those little bundles of fun. Dale and I enjoy the experience of exploring it together. Even if we zip through the newspaper in 10 minutes, the morning doesn’t seem complete without it. We learn new things, sometimes we get mad and we almost always laugh.

All journalists make mistakes from time to time, and certainly there’s bias, but I don’t believe journalists are the enemy of the people, and it’s not fake news. My thought is to pay attention, read broadly with a discerning eye, slow down to enjoy the fluff and live your life, live your life, live your life.

As you may recall, I was fed up with politics and last Thursday drove six hours to visit my sister for a long weekend of fun. Whilst searching for music channels to pass the time, I happened upon a special NPR broadcast of the Kavanaugh confirmation hearing!

Yes, I listened to most of it, including Brett’s opening monologue and the Lindsey Graham tantrum, until the Redwoods began to interfere with the satellite, and that made me mad, because I wanted more.

Then I got to Cheryl’s house, and we watched more. I lamented one of my new golf buddies didn’t know who Ruth Bader Ginsburg was, and my sister thought I was too picky about golf buddies, possibly friends in general. Lots of wonderful people don’t care or don’t care to know, and there’s something to be said for focusing on health and happiness.

However, my health and happiness is somewhat contingent on having a voice. I welcome people who disagree with me, but I can’t stand to be squelched. Just to stir things up, I’ll be reprising my RBG costume this year for Halloween, this time with a dissent collar I ordered from Etsy.

Dissent seems to be building up in me, but that might be the boof talking.

Cheryl was kind enough to provide The Great British Baking Show for editorial relief. The hosts come across as kind and supportive – a pleasant alternative to the hearings. I’m a fan now – Paul Hollywood – why, I’d change my name to that! I’m team Prue. Loved her style, especially her glasses, although I liked Mary Berry well enough. As I understand it, Mary is a legend.

Oh, and it’s like a whole different country over there. Oddly named baked items I have never heard of. Jaffa cakes. Bedfordshire Clangers. Biscuits are cookies. Stodgy is bad. There’s even a little sexual repartee. What fun! Did you notice I used the word whilst at the beginning of this post? I might just start speaking with a British accent.

Later, I heard my sister laughing in her bedroom, and I said, “What was so funny?” She had watched the first episode of the new Murphy Brown. I was prepared to hate it but found myself laughing out loud. Of course, the show speaks to my left coast liberal perspective, and even my cloudy view from inside the bubble tells me it would not be entertaining to those elsewhere on the political spectrum.

In all fairness, I didn’t find Corky’s menopausal hot flash jokes to be funny, but that might be bitter leftovers from my own experience, which was simply not amusing. Oh, and Tyne Daly looks fabulous – makes me want to cut my hair and add a streak of pink.

See how easy it is to get distracted?

That’s a good thing, although I’m an unrepentant news junkie. I am a journalism major, after all. At 63, many of the issues that affect women of reproductive age don’t affect me, but I still pay attention because I care in the global sense. We can’t be so myopic we only care about ourselves.

Or can we? Think global, vote self-absorbed? Just wait and see how riled up I get when they go after Social Security.

Although I find myself passionately interested in current events, for the most part, I have been largely uninterested in writing about them. At least for now. That’s the good news. The bad news is, what’s left? Bladder control?

I wondered if I could change – settle down and go gentle into that good night. But I’ve discovered now that I’m retired, I have more time to stay abreast of issues, and I rather like being well-informed. I want to stay engaged in the important topics of the day, and I may write about them from time to time.

Or I may not. The freedom to decide what I say and what I write about is a huge perk of age and retirement. I used to worry about representing my employer, and now I represent only me.

First rule of order is to keep my head from exploding. We’ll see what happens after that.

I’ve been reading and thinking and getting angry and sad about sexual misconduct and the long-term consequences. I said to Dale, I’m so lucky I was never physically or sexually assaulted. Then I thought about how sick and wrong that is – assault should be an aberration not the norm.

There was a time in the Army more than 40 years ago when it seemed a close-run thing. I don’t remember the exact year. I don’t remember the month or the weather. I would have been 18 or 19 years old. I know I was in a small apartment in Germany I shared with another female soldier. She was out for the evening. We had only one humongous key, and I left it in the door for her.

Bad judgment on my part, for sure. I was in bed asleep, when all of the sudden I felt someone tugging at my feet and heard a man’s voice saying, “Sugar, sugar, wake up.”

My scared shitless strategy was to pretend I was still asleep and hope he went away, but he persisted. “Sugar, wake up now.”

I don’t know if it was bravery, stupidity or panic, but I bolted up in bed and said, “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but you get the fuck out of here now.”

He backed away, and said sorry, sorry, I thought you were someone else. I said I don’t care who you thought I was, you get the fuck out of here now. He looked up in surprise and said, “Oh, you, I’ve seen your pussy before.”

Then he turned around headed for the door. He paused in the kitchen and said, “Your icebox is open.”

It was one of those funky old iceboxes you had to push hard to close. I was still in bed with the covers pulled up tight, and I said, “I’ll close it after you leave.”

I really think it was a case of mistaken identity, and the man was not out to harm me. I didn’t tell anyone, and I didn’t report it. I moved back into the barracks.

The stakes are low for me. I was not sexually assaulted. He didn’t pin me down, and he didn’t put a hand over my face to shut me up. It was just a man who found his way into my bedroom, wiggled my foot and and said something crude. I don’t have to convince anyone I’m telling the truth. No one is clamoring for details. No one’s reputation is on the line.

All I know is 40 years later, I will never forget the fear. That’s why I believe Dr. Ford.

I’ve been off the grid for the past week or so visiting family, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit I’ve missed my retirement routine. Travel feels more like work. Plus, visiting family typically requires my auxiliary power, which can be exhausting.

Dale and I saw a good bit of the world when we were younger, so we don’t have a travel Jones like many retirees. We’re pretty much homebodies.

Part of being a homebody is the pleasure of sleeping in your own bed and eating your own food, and that’s probably what I’ve missed the most. I also like setting my own agenda. When I’m on the road, I find it’s easy to get sucked into doing stuff I don’t really want to do.

I suppose there’s an upside to getting outside your comfort zone, but in my first year of retirement, I’ve been sort of selfish and all about my personal comfort. Maybe playing well with others will come later.

The other thing about travel is watching money fly out the window. Airfare and meals out add up. We have a slush fund so we can enjoy a trip without worrying about money, but I still hate spending it. We had a horrible meal at the airport, and I won’t even reveal how much it cost. On the other hand, we’ve had a couple of nice meals out, so it’s not all bad. Still, I’m cheap.

All in all, it has been a good trip, but I’m ready to go home. I miss the kitty, although the cat sitter texted a picture of them practically smooching, so I’m not sure he misses us.

I admire the retirement road warriors, but that is not the life for me. Which one are you? Homebody, road warrior or something in between?

Yesterday I sent a note to my subscribers that I would be deactivating this blog. I’ve had technical issues that just got the best of me, and I said screw it. Then I played a horrible nine holes of golf and moped all evening about what a loser I am.

We were out in the backyard for what is supposed to be happy hour, but obviously I didn’t get the memo. I was in a deep funk. Dale said sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself. He said you played bad golf because you took your baggage to the course. You don’t really want to quit blogging.

Yes to all of the above. You’d think at 62 I would have this all figured out, but I don’t. Whatever this is, whatever my issues, I’ve always blamed it on growing up in a family crippled by emotional deprivation, but I think I’m close to the expiration date on that excuse.

When I reflect with a clear mind, I realize I’m still a work in progress, and I’ve already learned a lot about myself in less than a year of retirement. I continue to evolve, but dag, technology can bite.

While I’m savvy with desktop applications, web design and WordPress drive me nuts. My hosting company doesn’t help with WordPress issues, and I found out I was being charged for WordPress help I didn’t know I had. When I asked where I could see that account on my dashboard, they said, oh, you have to call. I said where are the invoices? They said, oh, we’ll send them to you now.

I said, and I quote: “Motherfuckers.”

The guy said, “What?”

I said I just used a very bad word in my outside voice. Please just send me the invoices and cancel the subscription.

So now I’m on my own again. I apologize if you have problems commenting — I will continue to work through these challenges because I am not a quitter, damn it.

Let the fiesta begin!

Postscript: I have been trying to turn off comment moderation, so you don’t have to wait to see your comment. I’ve not been able to get that to work — I still have to approve them — but I tested it today and saw the reader does not get a message that says the comment is awaiting moderation. So you think your comment didn’t take — but it did. I’m on it!!

It’s Sunday, and for some reason, I thought about church, even though I haven’t been inside a house of worship for many years. As I’ve tried to boost my creative output in retirement, the memories stir, and I’m whisked away to childhood, when Mom and Dad did their best to keep the nuns happy.

My parents were check-the-box Catholics. Neither was particularly religious, although they were both raised Catholic and were married in the Catholic church. Part of the deal is agreeing to raise your kids Catholic, so that’s what they did. The highlight for my mother was dressing us up in little outfits with matching hats and purses. I liked when we went for donuts after.

As my mother understood it, she was responsible for getting us through confirmation, which is when you come of age in the eyes of the church. I seem to remember this happening around age 13 or 14, but I’m not sure. Once she checked that box, she was done.

I quit going to church and never went back. Despite years of Saturday catechism and Sunday mass, religion never stuck with me. I confess to attending church a couple of times in high school with a friend who was into it. I don’t know what her deal was, but I was just trying to keep a friend happy so we could all go to the beach later.

When I joined the Army at age 18, they asked for religion and I said none. They put that down as no preference, which I think is quite different than my intent. I just wanted to be a good, moral person without a stamp of approval from organized religion, but the pressure was on. A boyfriend broke up with me by way of a note that said, “I’m looking for a woman who is intellectually and spiritually strong. Although you are intellectually strong, your spiritual attributes are nil.” I thought that was a little harsh, but at the time it was probably true.

I respect faith in its many iterations. For a while, I thought I might be Jewish. My parents were both of Eastern European descent, and Pekar is a name that can be associated with Judaism. As a teenager, a lot of my friends were Jewish, and I read Chaim Potok, so I thought maybe that was my tribe. When I was found to have the BRCA 1 mutation, I thought, this is it. I’m Jewish! However, genetic testing revealed no such affiliation. Back to being a no preference, lapsed, check-the-box, ex-Catholic.

Have you found aging to have an impact on your religious practices and spiritual beliefs? For the faithful, I imagine finding that sense of community has a positive impact on your life, especially as you get older. My mother got more Catholic as she aged. Not in a doctrinaire or go to church and touch people kind of way, but she knew her saints and called upon them frequently. I’ve heard it said some people become more religious as they get closer to death. Hedging your bets, so to speak.

Although I didn’t become more Catholic like my mom, I have grown more spiritual. When I was being treated for ovarian cancer 18 years ago, I swear I met my guardian angel. Is that a Catholic thing? I don’t subscribe to a particular deity, although I do believe there’s a spiritual universe beyond what we can see and touch. The details are sketchy.

When it comes to religion, we all land where we land, but it’s interesting to think about where we started and where we ended up. As I’ve aged, I continue to keep an open mind and now think of myself as being spiritually fluid – camping out among indefinite lines along a spectrum of believing and not believing or something in between.

I’ve always been a feminist. Had the t-shirts, wore the pins. My first published essay was in 8^th grade arguing girls should be allowed to wear pants to school. I wrote scathing letters to the editor over the years and marched for the Equal Rights Amendment. Dale drove our red Fiat 124 Spider in a parade of sorts, while I held the placard and shouted:

Hey, hey, what do you say, ratify the ERA!

One could argue I became lazy or complacent with age, but I discovered who I really was and gradually lost interest in making a political statement. Instead, I’ve been living my life as a feminist and voting as a liberal Democrat. Writing about politics or joining protest movements is not my interest or my strength.

But sometimes one must speak up. In my July 4^th blog post, I wrote about the decay of civility. And I made a vow to stop being angry with people who voted for Trump. Humans ought to be able to disagree on a wide variety of topics yet still plow forth in pursuit of goodness.

There are dark forces and people with bad intent in this mix, and that doesn’t mean I have to quietly accept their deeds, but it also doesn’t mean I have to come out of the gate screaming. The world has endured terrible leaders, but that was before we all started hating each other. Perhaps we can withstand any political regime if we stop being assholes.

As part of this awakening, I started to reconsider social media. It seemed like I was wasting a lot of time hoping for “likes” when I should be shaping thoughts or even talking with my husband! I also found social media to be rather depressing. Plenty of stories in my feed reaffirmed my beliefs, but if validation and group think is what we’re going for, we may as well watch Fox News.

I enjoyed feeling connected to like-minded people, but it didn’t make me any less lonely. I play golf with women whose names I can barely remember, yet I know your child’s birthday, because you posted those adorable pictures. I love meeting people through blogging and other internet forums, but maybe it’s also time to get to know the people down the street? Even if they turn out to be Republicans.

By the time I finished reading Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now, I decided to disengage from most forms of social media. Twitter and Instagram are already gone. FaceBook will be deleted soon. I’m keeping LinkedIn and maybe Pinterest.

The book’s author, Jaron Lanier, explains how mostly Google and FaceBook use information you share to make money, sow discord and manipulate groups of people he calls “packs.” The algorithms that drive these social media platforms are apolitical – it’s all about social engineering and money. The unexpected consequence is the loss of civility. The uglier it gets out there, the greater your chances of going viral.

I’ve posted a notice on my Retirement Confidential FaceBook page. I’ll be shutting it down in a few days and invited readers to enjoy my blog on this website or via email subscription. I’ve added a few more subscribers, so thank you very much for the follows! You can still share my posts on your own social media pages by using the links in the sidebar on the left or at the bottom of each post.

Lanier’s book pushed me further in a direction I was already going. You may read it and say, I like social media! And that’s fine. We all have to make the decisions that feel right for us.

On a personal note, I will continue to read news sources such as The Washington Post and The New York Times so I can piece together what is important to know and what isn’t. I will continue to engage with bloggers and other internet friends. But I’m also looking for opportunities to engage at a local level. I’m focusing more on kindness and interpersonal relationships … being social without social media.

Letting go of my hostility and expanding my concept of being social has already made me feel happier. I understand anger can galvanize people to take much-needed political action, and I am grateful for their activism. But we’re not all wired for that path. I can support them without having to be them.

For me, anger is a soul sucker.