I’ve been retired for several months now. I headed out on
vacation a week before our daughter’s wedding in early June, and when my
accrued paid time off ran out, what I’ve dubbed the “rest-of-my-life vacation”
began.
You start enjoying a number of thoroughly delectable “freedoms”
once you retire: No more setting the alarm for crazy o’clock in the a.m. Lazily
sipping your morning coffee at the kitchen table instead of gulping it down
during the morning commute. Reading the newspaper early in the day, while the
news is still vaguely fresh. Exercising or reading a book when the mood suits
you. Catching a movie during the week. Wearing sweats and tank tops instead of
business attire. Wearing sandals instead of heels. And scheduling every day
based on your personal wants, needs and interests, rather than at someone
else’s behest.
But the biggest freedom? Speaking freely about work, coworkers
and careers – because all three are in the rear view mirror.
As a writer by education and profession, that sometimes
means posting my thoughts online. I may not get paid to write what I think –
and it’s certainly possible that few folks will ever read my musings. But it’s
positively liberating to reflect on my 40-plus years in the work world and
share my discoveries with those just starting their careers, or with those struggling
to make it through to their own retirement.
Sometimes, though, it’s a casual conversation that morphs
into reflections on play and work, fulfillment and frustration, autonomy and
obligation.
I had one of those yesterday, while in the checkout line at
a store. The woman behind me commented enviously about my crazily polished
fingernails – royal blue French tips with a band of sparkly gold edging the
nail bed. “Wish I could do my nails like that, but I could never wear it at
work!”
“I couldn’t either!” I laughed, “but I retired a few months
ago so I decided to do UCLA nails for our first home football game last
weekend.”
That sparked a conversation that continued through my
purchase, and hers, and out into the parking lot as we strolled toward our
cars. She shared that she’s “planning to retire next spring, but I’m getting to
the point where I can’t put up with the nonsense anymore. I got mad at my boss
yesterday, and I knew if I went in today, I’d get irritated all over again, so
I took a day off.”
Oh do I remember “those” days. Maybe it was a “colleague”
claiming credit for my work or horning in on a plum assignment. An employee
who’d screwed up an assignment and was trying to blame someone else. Or a
business unit customer with no skill or expertise as a communicator but still
fancied himself a creative genius, telling me not just what to say but also how
to say it. (That’s a too-frequent occurrence when your profession is based on
the written word. “Everyone” can write. Yeah, we all write papers and exams in
college, but not everyone understands how best to communicate on a sensitive
subject or illustrate a complex concept.)
Whatever the particulars, I’d had “those days” too. And once
you get to the point in your career where you’re no longer seeking the next
opportunity, no longer contemplating the next step up the career ladder, but
are instead calculating living expenses, toting up retirement package benefits,
and setting a target date for your departure, “those days” start grating even
more. You deal with the irritation of the moment while muttering under your
breath, “I don’t need this any more!”
I’d begun the unhitching process in my mind a couple of
years ago, after a major medical scare convinced me there had to be more to
life than work. My husband and I started running the numbers, and I started calculating
a good retirement date.
We had decided it would be some time this year. I was
thinking I’d announce it before our daughter’s wedding, and leave later that
summer. And then it happened.
My boss, working offsite, got ticked off about a story that
an employee on another team hadn’t posted by his deadline. He tried to reach
that person’s director, but she didn’t pick up her phone. So he called me. He
yelled. He shouted. He gave me hell – I guess because he had to yell at
SOMEONE, and I was available.
It wasn’t the first time he’d blown up. Or blamed the wrong
person. But it was the final straw. I shut down my computer, put my phone on
message, and left for the day. Driving home, I called my husband. “I’m done.”
“For the day?” “No, I’m DONE.”
We talked that night. And in the morning, the first thing I
did when I booted up my computer was log in to the HR service center tool and
start the retirement process.
I informed my boss later that day. He was stunned, and said,
“I hope this isn’t a knee-jerk reaction to yesterday – that wasn’t my shining
moment.”
I could have pretended. I could have been polite and said,
“Oh no, it’s not that.” But I wanted him to KNOW. I wanted him to realize that
it’s not okay to take out your frustrations on your employees. I wanted it to
be crystal clear that, YES, it was about yesterday – and all the yesterdays
before, when he or others had disrespected or demeaned or devalued the people
with whom they worked.
So I replied, “Well, this is something I’ve been
contemplating for a while, but yesterday crystallized things for me, and I
decided it’s time.”
I shared that story yesterday with the woman I met at the
store, and offered a bit of advice: When you realize you’re emotionally “over”
your career, start figuring out how and when you might want to call it quits. Start
preparing for that day, so you know how you’ll want, or need, to alter your
lifestyle to accommodate the disappearance of that full-time income. Start a
private countdown calendar and post it unobtrusively in your office or cubicle,
if it helps you get from one day to the next.
Because you might just decide, as I did, to retire even sooner.
Knowing that you’ll be okay gives you the greatest freedom of all: the ability
to pull the plug just because, as the Howard Beale character in Network so loudly proclaimed, “I’m mad
as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!”
But you will have lived to tell the tale. Now, that’s
freedom.
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