How Elections Have Consequences #564: Why I Can Retire Early

Thanks, Obama! 

I mentioned a couple of days ago that I chose an Obamacare plan, since I’ll no longer be covered by my former job, and I’m not yet eligible for Medicare. It's not lost on me that just a few short years ago, “retiring” at 61 wouldn’t have been a viable option. Even with an adequate income provided by, say a 401k and/or SSA, I would have been more or less compelled to continue working. 

This is because until the passage of the Affordable Care Act in 2010, there were very few options for individuals to buy health insurance on the open market. Essentially all healthcare in this country was provided by either Medicare (for old people), Medicaid (for low income people) or employer provided health insurance (for working peope.) If you were an individual who didn’t meet those qualifications (old and/or poor) and didn’t have the good fortune to have a job with benefits, you were shit out of luck. Quitting wasn’t an option.

Thanks Obama! 

I suck at setting deadlines.

Is that all there is? 

It sucks when you wake up in Paradise and wonder where it all went so terribly, abysmally wrong. 

I didn’t do most of the things on my list from yesterday, which is only a few short steps away from being day drunk on box wine by noon can be problematic for the recovering drunk, wait alcoholic, no I mean person suffering with a substance use disorder.  

It’s just too easy to waste time when no one is standing over me. I woke up this morning feeling… what, exactly? Irritable? Anxious? Unmoored? I’m a month into this “retirement” thing, and don’t get me wrong, it’s great. But there’s also a growing sense of “Okay, now what?” 

I predicted this, of course. Throughout my career(s), even in the fallow periods, there's always been a “Next Big Thing” to reach for. The next step up, the next pay increase, the next rung on the ladder to climb. When you step off the merry-go-round, there is no longer any prize to reach for. At least, not there. 

What to do now, in a world without deliverables, without deadlines? I’m free to grow my own garden and there, of course, is the rub. It's embarrassing to admit at my age, but I really don't know how to set my own deadlines. I’m not really sure where to start. 

I practiced scales for awhile, ahead of my piano lesson on Monday. 

* * *  

I spend too much time here. 

Have I mentioned that writing Etsy listings is the bane of my existence? Boring as fuck Tedious, to say the least. The platform itself is easy enough to use, but let’s face it: once I’ve closed a strand and put a clasp on it, I’m done with it. 

Trust me, the last thing I feel like doing after stringing the same piece three, maybe four times before it's how I want it, is to then cost out each element that made the final strand. 

It's a painstaking process, because I curate beads from all over the world, and the price per bead (or per inch for small beads) can vary widely. 

Once a reasonable asking price has been set, there are a billion pics to take and crop and edit, and some catchy words to write about why this is THE MOST FABULOUS PIECE OF JEWELRY EVER!!! about the items that are included in the piece. There's shipping to consider, the measurements, any other materials included in the item. Etsy makes all this as easy as possible, but it’s still a righteous pain in the ass a chore.

*    *    *

Neolithic era African trade beads,
estimated to be anywhere from 1,000-3,000 years old. 

I finally finished the strand I’ve been working on for a couple of weeks, the ancient amazonite 5-stone focal point. I paired this with 12 ancient glass beads on each side, all of it held together with ancient roman, and modern amber glass. I think it turned out quite nicely, good balance, the right length. It hangs well. I try to pair beads appropriately in my designs. If I'm just having fun with modern glass or clay beads or wood, pretty much anything goes. It's all up to your personal esthetic. 

But the older the beads, the more careful I am. The more respectful, not just in the handling and storing of them, but in how I'll mix them. Call it bead ageism, but I can't bring myself to mix a small lot of 1,400 year old Venetian glass with neon colored acrylics.

Ancient glass beads from the Roman period,
dating 1st - 4th century A.D.

We’ll see if it sells; these antiquities are a more specialized market. If not, I’m happy to hold on to it for awhile. 

Meanwhile, I have these absolutely gorgeous Islamic era blue glass “evil eye” beads. Almost all of the blue Islamics can be traced back to the excavation in Djenne, Mali, a major ancient trade route. There they found thousands and thousands of ancient trade beads that had been buried there beneath the Saharan desert for centuries. (I’ll note, a very small one of these beads, with no evil eye marking, is included in the necklace I just finished.) 

Current iteration:
stone and ancient glass

The blue Islamics can vary widely in price, anywhere from $5-10 for a small unmarked bead, up to $100 or more (per bead) for larger ones with clear “evil eye” inclusions. The “eyes” on these beads are sometimes painted, and finding painted eyes is exciting because with beads this old, any paint is usually long worn off or covered with the patina of age. More often the “eyes” are inclusions of white glass to the surface of the blue. These beads are over 2,500 years old, as noted, from the Islamic era — which is why I call them blue Islamics. 

~2,000 yr old glass beads

I’ve been holding on to these beads for awhile, but they’re getting antsy. They want to be see daylight again. They want to be seen. 

And really, don’t we all? 

* * *

Note to self: It’s too easy (and not good) to isolate. That’s the path to heartache. There are a lot of cool things to do and places to be. For now, it's enough that I just keep showing up. Can I do that without a time clock? 

These beads were made for walkin'

 

 

Too Many Options Is A Good "Problem" To Have

 

Great, so now what? 

It’s Thursday, and I’m not sure what that means now. It's pathetic that in the absence of a schedule, I’m unsure what to do. It’s like there are too many options, none of them urgent enough to compel action. I’m nothing without a deadline, it turns out, and I’m not particularly good at imposing them on myself. Procrastination will surely be the death of me. 

I finally stirred my loins yesterday and signed up for an Obamacare plan, but only because it had to be done this week or I’d go without health insurance in October — and with my luck that’s when I’d break a leg or, I dunno, have a heart attack or something. 

I chose a sensible, mid-level silver plan, something with a reasonable monthly premium and a deductible that won’t break the bank if I get hit by a bus. When comparing the plans on the marketplace (healthcare.gov), it soon became clear that the differences within a plan category are about shuffling the out-of-pocket costs around in a way that make them more manageable for the consumer.

No lie, they made this pretty easy IMO.

So, for example, you may see three policies that offer essentially the same coverage — however, one plan will require more of a co-pay for doctor visits, or a slightly higher monthly premium BUT will have a lower deductible each year. The expected total annual out of pocket costs add up to be pretty much the same under the different plans, depending on how much medical care you require that year — but each plan eases the pain in different ways. 

I’m fortunate that I don’t have a lot of Doctor visits, don’t take any meds, and don’t need a lot of specialists. I really don’t use my health insurance on a regular basis (yet! — this could change in an instant of course) so it’s really more there for emergencies in my case. Hence, I chose a plan with a lower monthly premium and a slightly higher co-pay for doctor visits — since I rarely go to a doctor.  

Your results may vary, lulz. Trying to predict what level of healthcare you’ll need in the future is like reading tea leaves in the dark. But it’s a huge relief just to have access to health insurance, to be able to purchase it and use it when needed. 

You kids out there will forget this, but it used to be a lot harder to walk away from shitty jobs when they were your only source of medical care. (Reminder: Medicare, the the wildly popular senior health insurance program, doesn't kick in until age 65.) 

Just ten years ago, it was quite common for older workers like me -- who wanted, and could afford to retire before age 65 -- to continue working simply because it was the only way for us to get health insurance. Stepping down at age 61 wouldn’t have been an option for me, or the millions of Americans who now have access to affordable insurance. 

President Obama signs the Affordable Care Act. 

So, thanks Obama! Thanks Pelosi! And, while we’re at it,  FUCK YOU, Republicans! The good guys won. Even Mike Pence more or less confirmed it at the Great Republican Clown Car Debate last night: Obamacare is wildly popular with the American people. Despite the GOP’s misguided efforts, Obamacare is indeed here to stay. 

* * *

Warning, I’ll be posting lots of bead pics later today. I’ve strung up some really nice beads these last few weeks and haven’t had time to take pics, get things listed. These fucking beads have taken over my house, so I’m pulling the Etsy shop together again — yes, there is one, shut up all of you — to make room for my next freighter shipment.

Jesus could have worn these beads, for real.

I dunno know why suddenly with this weird bead obsession I’ve developed. I did the same thing with stained glass a few years ago. Something grabs me and then it’s full tilt, all the way. By the time I was done with the glass, I could have opened my own shop: I had the glass, the supplies, the tools, the gadgets, the kilns (because FUSING!) — I had the inventory, baby. I carefully wrapped and packed and carried it all down here to Florida when we moved from DC. 

And then, as quickly as it had come on, like a passing seizure, it was over. One day I put an ad on Craigs List (remember Craigs List?) and sold my entire studio. Some random girl came and picked it all up in her boyfriend’s truck. That was six years and I haven’t cut glass since. 

Time passed. Then when Covid hit and we were all in quarantine for all those months (yes, some of us did, for all the good it accomplished) I stumbled across some old beads I’d tucked away for some reason. 

Ancient Roman Glass.

Apparently this was enough to trigger my (completely self-diagnosed) OCD, because I now have these fucking beads hanging all over my house. It’s a sickness, no question about it, but of my many outstanding mental issues, this current bead obsession is probably the least worrisome thing about me. 

And I'm still sober. In a weird way stringing my beads is somehow part of that. I know, I know, I don't get it either. But when I post pics of the beads, I'll appreciate it if y'all will just nod politely and say "Very nice." 

* * *

I’m supposedly writing a book, have I mentioned? Well, not writing it just yet, but thinking about it a lot. It’s there, I can see the shape of it starting to emerge, I’m identifying its universal themes, and trying to shape a cohesive narrative that resonates with readers.

Or something. Was I mumbling about self-imposed deadlines a minute ago? Was I opining earlier about my impeccable procrastination skills? I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I am really, reeeaaaalllly gifted at not getting shit done. The book is there, I’ve put together a loose outline, and I think it works. 

This is me, not procrastinating. 

But JFC, where to start? In a weird way, I think I started this blog as a way of finding that entry point, and establishing  the right voice and the right tone in which to say it all. 

 

 

Pre-Reading For Tonight's Debate

In the interest of having an informed electorate, I'm sharing this helpful primer ahead of tonight's GOP debate: 

 

You're welcome. 

Driving My Golf Cart to the Early Bird Specials

It’s 5AM on a Tuesday. The dogs are fed and quiet. The sun isn’t up yet. Job or no job, I’m pretty sure I’ll always be an early riser. 

Not me. Also, not Tai Chi. 

I have Tai Chi class this morning, and I’m hoping Dmitry shows me the next moves in the form. I’ve been practicing what I know every day, and I’m struck by how much it feels like I’m coming home to something. The body remembers. There were parts of martial arts I really loved, even if I’m no fighter. Tai Chi captures everything I loved about the sport, and leaves the fighting outside. 

It also calms my mind, the way the beads do. It reaches something in my deeper brain and resets the timer on my mood-clock. And it feels good physically, the way riding my bike feels good. I like the act of doing the form, it’s like a dance, and a trance, and I can actually feel my circulation moving through my arms and hands and feet. For someone like me, with a family history of diabetes, my own history with gout flares, and a lifetime’s worth of less than pristine habits? There’s some good in it.  

I’m happily surprised at how much I’m liking the piano lessons. I had my second go yesterday after the AA meeting. Teresa, my teacher, is a character. I was just sitting at her piano when she came sauntering out of her kitchen wearing these rather fabulous beads and holding a large guzzler of some fruity concoction she’s selling. It’s apparently the latest probiotic miracle drink that cures whatever ails ya, and it’s almost certainly a pyramid scheme.

Middle C has to be here somewhere...

 Listen honey, I grew up in a Shacklee household. For awhile there my  Dad was a Shacklee Ambassador, dutifully hawking vitamin products to all our friends — whom, it happened, were also selling Shacklee vitamins. Somehow, our family remained un-rich despite Dad’s fool proof pitch and winning pitch. I sat looking at this same smile now. I listened politely as Teresa finished her spiel, and then pointed the conversation elsewhere. 

“That necklace is fabulous,” I told her. “What is it, if you don’t mind my asking.” 

She explained that she and her family have done a lot of missionary work in Africa over the years and she has quite a collection of trade beads. At one point she left me to practice “Hot Cross Buns” and disappeared for a minute. When she came back she was holding two really gorgeous strands of these big, juicy African beads, perfectly round and smooth, about 15mm, and a lovely bright matte green. Nice weight to them, obviously authentic. They were a gift from her daughter, who’d brought them back from one of her own trips to Africa. 

Throw away those eggs and liver!

I’ll admit, the Bead-o-phile in me was impressed. I showed her the necklace I was wearing yesterday, the ~2500 year old amazonite vignette framed by ancient islamic glass up the sides — also a nice piece, if I say so. It was fun bonding over beads with her. Anyway, she was happy with my progress (piano lesson? What piano lesson…?) and told me to keep practicing my finger work with the new material — which I’ll just point is Bach and Beethoven because I’m a prodigy, bitchez. 

* * *

I’m finding all the cliches of retirement to be both true, and comforting. If I like doing my grocery shopping at 10 AM on a weekday now, what of it? The sea of golf carts in the parking lot may seem like a punchline in search of an “old fart” joke, but so be it. It turns out, despite all of our wildest expectations, that I survived to “old age.” I’ve achieved Senior Citizen status, I’ve been issued the membership card, and here in Florida that’s no small thing. 

I like my senior citizen discounts, thank you very much, and the early bird special at Rita’s Beachside Cafe will get me home in time for another episode of “Matolock” reruns, or “Murder She Wrote.” And, while I’m not a big fan of the modern movie-going experience these days (srsly, $9 for a medium Coke!?), there’s something appealing and vaguely subversive about going to a Wednesday matinee of some obscure movie that bombed at the box office for being too interesting.

Mostly, I’m enjoying this feeling of coming home to things I’d once known, and forgotten. I had music once, for a minute. There was a time when my body knew how to move with strength and grace. I had a love of other languages, and wrote only words that mattered to me. There was an interesting person in there once, before all this careering nonsense started.   

It's "Meatloaf Tuesday." 

So. Fine. If it’s unsurprising — okay, predictable okay fine, if y’all find it so got damn amuuuuusing that I’m doing all the things — taking piano lessons, going to Tai Chi, writing the book, going to meetings, and trying to do all the stuff I’ve always wanted to do someday, then so be it. Laugh, bitchez, because I’m here for all that shit now. 

There’s a watercolor class I want to check out, and I’ve been thinking about taking up Spanish from where I left off after high school. Is it too early to start pricing golf carts…

King'o the road, BABY.

 

 

Nothing Stays The Same And That's A Very Good Thing

It’s Sunday in this here new life. Today will be fairly quiet. My goal is to spend some time researching Obamacare plans, with the intent of enrolling today or tomorrow at latest. I need to settle on a drawdown schedule from the 401k to cover me through Feb when I can start drawing SSA. It still feels weird to be doing this. I’ve never *not* had to work before, and while there’s a bit of a giddy feeling to it, it’s not all fun and games.

Not Club Med, but... 

Yesterday I went to the morning meeting at Bayshore Club, the big “recovery hub” here in Port St Lucie. It’s your typical AA meeting, people from all walks of life, men, women, young, old. There are true believers and cynics, long timers and white-chippers. 

As always, there’s a lot of “God-talk,” but okay, whatever gets you through that white-knuckled craving pal. One thing I can say, this group is not afraid to get real. There are tears. There are painful silences. There are authentic stories. For now, it’s worth the effort of going a few times a week. 

*    *    *

As I was sitting in the meeting, I got a text from my nephew Zach. He was back in the area to pick up some of his things from storage, did I want to grab a bite? It was inconvenient timing (when is it not?) and so very, very typical of him to drop a one-line text with zero notice, demanding that I drop whatever I’d planned for that day to accommodate. I’ll admit, I felt churlish: Goddammit, Zach.

But he was moving soon, and this might be the last chance I’d have to see him before he went. 

He’d moved here a few years ago after a messy divorce, and lived with my parents (his grandparents) and it worked out well enough until my parents died of Covid in 2021. It was a win-win for all of them at the time, even if the bitching started almost immediately.  Since then Zach has met a great woman, a young widow with three kids, and he’s landed a great new job in North Carolina. He and his new family will be moving away soon to start a new life there. 

I couldn’t be happier. Not that he’s moving away, although I think it sounds like a great opportunity for him. But happy because things are finally breaking his way. It hasn’t been an easy path for Zach. I’ve written about our unique relationship in the past. In most ways, Zach is more like my kid brother than my nephew. He was raised, in part, by my parents. Both his mother and father (my brother and his wife) died while Zach was in college. And now, thanks to Covid and the deliberate misinformation spread by the GOP, so did his grandparents. 

We’re the last of our little family to survive. Zach and I are the only ones to remember our shared history, the good and the bad. He frustrates the shit out of me at times, but I do truly cherish my 38-year-old “kid brother.” And now he’s leaving. I think I actually cried a little. 

* * *

Which has been happening more often these last few weeks, the sudden and inexplicable crying jags.  At the grocery store. In my car. Folding laundry. At first I was like what the fuck, dewd. Nothing dramatic. A few sniffles, a stray tear. But something is going on and I’m not sure what it’s about exactly. Crying jags are not my vibe, at all.

I've been a little emotional lately.

I suppose this is grief. It occurred to me recently that I’d never really gotten the chance when they died. There was a surreal quality to my parent’s deaths, the bizarre circus that Covid had become under Donald Trump, the quiet, almost embarrassed way the ambulance came to take each of them to the ER when their respective times came. It was unnerving, having to slip past the nursing station and sneak into the waiting room to spend those last few moments with mom. 

It was a stupid and reckless thing to do, I know. There were actual security guards looking for me as I huddled down next to mom. It was terrifying to see both of them swallowed up by an overburdened hospital system, and then be denied contact with them as they died. It was nightmarish, the 2AM call from the charge nurse who was caring for mom, asking me if she should be put on a ventilator. 

And then those lost, shuffling weeks afterwards, quarantining, completely alone. I had just started the job that I’ve now just recently left. 

Listen, I spent the first couple months of this dumb blog writing about that workplace. I won’t belabor it, I’ll just note for the record (again) the it was the absolute worst job situation I’ve had in the entire 40+ years I’ve been in the grown-up work force — and that’s sayin something. I’ve had more than one person point out that I may be suffering from real, actual PTSD, and it doesn’t seem that far fetched to me. 

It occurred to me yesterday, as I was feeling annoyed with my nephew for no good reason, that I never really grieved them. Not really. I just went numb, put on my big boy boots, and for two long years I descended into the daily hell that was that fucking job. Now I have all this time, the pressure is off, the burdens are lifted. 

And it’s only now that I’m allowing myself to feel the loss of them. 

* * *

When I was in the 5th grade, mom signed me up for piano lessons. The teacher said I had great potential (“Look at the spread on those FINGERS!” she gushed.) But I never practiced, and nothing really came of it. I blame mom, natch. Anyway, I’ve always regretted my aborted musical career, but fast forward, now it’s 50 years later and my second piano lesson is tomorrow and I haven’t practiced “Hot Cross Buns” at all. It’s possible I won’t be the next Liberace after all. 

That said, I’m very pleased with the necklace I was working on, with the 2,000-yr-old stones and the roman glass. I’m happy with the way it turned out and I’ll post some pics later today. Meanwhile, the Etsy shop is a mess. Need to get that cleaned up, and also need to find a better way of storing inventory once it’s listed. Stay tuned.