I have been with my current employer for almost twenty-four years. I have a “Time To Retirement” clock on my office wall, with the dial set to the year 2040. I will be eighty-three years old that year (well, eighty-two on New Year's Day 2040, but let's not split hairs).
When I started there, most of my coworkers were older than me. This has changed. A few years ago, I hired someone who was around twenty years old; I realized later that she was born while I was sitting behind that very same desk, or one just like it.
Dearie me!
Partner, like me, is no longer a spring chicken. We both think longingly of retirement. We look forward avidly to weekends and holidays and vacations, as foretastes of what life will be like when we don't have to work anymore, if that day ever arrives.
So how do we spend our weekends?
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We sleep in.
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We refill our prescriptions.
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We refill our pill-minders (those cunning little plastic things that tell you when to take your pills, and how many).
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We argue about whether or not to see a movie.
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We see a movie.
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We shop for groceries (yogurt, rotisserie chicken, and sundries).
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We have a meal on the town sometimes.
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Once in a while we visit Partner's sister and brother-in-law up in Massachusetts.
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Once in a very great while we go completely insane and go to Boston, or Manhattan, or Cape Cod.
The weekends are over far too soon.
And then it's Monday all over again, and we have to plod back to the office.
If you ask me, the year 2040 can't come soon enough.
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