I woke up on this morning thinking about all the fires that need to be put out at work. Never mind that being "at work" isn't a thing anymore. Not surprising I would wake up thinking of them, I guess. I've more or less carried the place for the last two years, and old habits die hard. But then I remembered that I let all that go last week. The Monday Morning fires aren't mine to put out any more, and that suits me just fine.
You'd think this would be cause for jubilation. I'M RETIRING! YAY ME! And there is some of that, I suppose. I'm glad to be off the merry-go-round. But I'd be lying if I said I'm not also fighting a creeping sense of Okay, now what? I've always needed a place to be, a thing to do, and that hasn't changed.
Drew, my partner in life these last four decades, is already making noise about how maybe I can pick up something part time somewhere.
Um, no. What I can pick up is a yoga class and a nice lunch somewhere. What I can pick up is the book I'm trying to write. What I can pick up is a hobby, or piano lessons or whatever it is retired people do. What I can pick up is some joy, some healing. What I can pick up is some of that got dam serenity people are always droning on about.
I've been in Gilda's IOP recovery group for three years now, which has got to be some kind of record for both of us. I like her group because, since Covid, it's all done by video. More on that later, but in this new "normal," I'm not going to need goals so much as places to go. I'm going to need destinations.
A place to be, a thing to do.
It's not as easy as it sounds. I've been a working stiff all my life, I've never had to actually engage. My own interests have always given way to the expediency of buying food or paying a mortgage. I've never had to fill my own time. It feels a little daunting, is all I'm sayin.
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