Who's counting anyway?

OK look.    We are only in Day 5 of this whole scenario, so it is a bit too early to say if this is the good news or the bad news.  We remain uncertain at this time.  But here we go…drumroll…

Ladies and gentlemen!  Mr. Plath has retired!

He has left the building.  He is not going back into the building.  No.  Of that much we are certain.  He is staying home.  With me.

And therein lies the tentative nature of our relationship.  After 25 years of marriage, will retirement,with its enforced togetherness, its mandatory glee, be the end of us?

Back in the day – last week, to be specific – we had a comfortable, if one-sided, routine:  The alarm went off at 6 AM and the coffee pot beeped; we turned on the news and had a bowl of granola. 

He got in the shower at 6:15, a warm and gentle human being.  Then, as though the shower stall were some futuristic contraption designed for making Men in Suits, the disheveled and groggy guy who stepped in came out seven minutes later sleek, focused, and standing at the boardroom table – mentally anyway – a working man with his working face already working. 

Hair drying, for him a 20 second operation, was sufficient to whisk all thoughts of life outside the corporate campus from his consciousness.  He barely acknowledged me as I watched his transformation. 

Only moments ago he had been in his dream world of duck blinds and hip waders, but now, as he buttoned himself down, his expression changed with his internal dialogue.  I imagine it went something like this:  “That’s right Joe; we have to trim the fat!  If we want to increase our net end-of-the-year functional profitability equation matrix, something’s got to give!”

But what he’d say was, “Love ya, Honey!  Home around seven!”  And with a whoosh and swoop, I had the house to myself.

How I spend my days is not open for scrutiny just now.  See, I could tell him whatever I wanted.  Maybe I went to movie after movie and ate popcorn all day.  Maybe I had a mani and a pedi and one of those face mask thingies.  He was never the wiser.

So long as the house was clean and dinner on the table, what did he care?  More accurately, how could he care after a 12 hour day of meetings wrapped at both ends with a glorious 40 minute commute? 

At the end of those days, he was just glad to take off his shoes.

So he made his Victory Lap, going to farewell party after congratulatory luncheon.  He played golf and smiled for the camera and got cards and cakes and slaps on the back and affectionate ribbings. 

And when it came time to turn in his laptop and security badge, he had not a moment’s nostalgia.

And now he’s home and there are no more secrets.  No more ethereal answers to, “How was your day, Honey?”  He’s right here.  He can see exactly how my day is.

Suffice it to say that, having retired four years ago myself, I have thoroughly relaxed out of my own time-served in the institutional life. 

Oh, I get up and do things, but leaping out of my cozy Tempurpedic after it has molded to my body creating the best possible sleep experience, disturbing the cats and launching into activity is not the way it goes at 6-the-bleep-thirty, thank you very much.

I expected the worst – a watch-tapping version of my father, to-do list in hand and disapproving gleam in his eye.

But to my amazement, Mr. Plath does not wake up without the alarm.  I can pull out my book and read for a good stretch until … OMG!  Is he going to sleep all day?!

No.  No he’s not.  There he is!  Mr. Sleepy Head.  So sweet. 

We have had five leisurely mornings with coffee and the Today Show.  Granola in bed.  Repeated reveling about this lovely new phase of life and the great big beautiful world around us.

So we reside now in what you might call the Honeymoon Stage of his retirement.  Like newlyweds, we are happy!  So very happy!

And they said it wouldn’t last!

Job Opportunity ~ Second Career: AKA~ Cashing in on the Foibles of Others

Just like teenagers, retirees grub for subsistence.  Young people chase odd jobs and easy money.  So do we. 

Unfortunately, no one will pay us to clean our rooms or take out the trash.  Darn. 

As in nature, creatures seeking the same prey must stake out their territory and defend it against interlopers.  Therefore, fair warning to adolescents sniffing out the latest prospect for cashing in on the foibles of others:  Don’t underestimate the grit of your grandma.  We will seize this opportunity. 

Teens refer to it as babysitting, but those of us in the post-retirement plunge know this potentially promising prospect as chaperoning!  Secret Service chaperoning, that is.  

You’ve seen the headlines.  Our little guys need supervision on the ethical side of the street.  

As a retired high school principal, I am uniquely qualified for this task.  In fact, I may face the conundrum of being too qualified.  I’ve thwarted the trickiest of tricksters:  Teenagers. 

That’s right.  After years of on-the-job training and active duty on the front lines of public schools, I can monitor expense accounts, cover cleavage (no doubt key in leading agents astray), locate and confiscate all manner of contraband (to remain unnamed in a family newspaper), intercept surreptitious cell phone communications, patrol perimeters, and safeguard sidelines.  With years of throwing wet blankets and drizzling on parades, I feel certain I can keep a short leash on even the wildest hormonal antics of a few advance team operatives. 

And don’t forget, I’m a mother.  That intersection of skill sets, between mom and principal, may be unequaled in the undercover world of ferreting out the fishy and putting a kybosh on clandestine capers.  My preoccupation with "Case Crackers" will pay off, too.  I knew it would come in handy someday. 

Of course a person must weigh the risks and remuneration of any career adjustment. 

Other options do exist for a person in the fullness of her life:  I could don latex gloves and a hairnet.  Oh yes!  Slicing and serving Costco pulled pork has its appeal.  Free food for one.  And meeting the needs of all those starving scavengers who converge at the corners of the concrete aisles hoping to snag a thimbleful of mac and cheese?  It doesn’t get more rewarding than that. 

Alternatively, I’ve long been drawn to the profession of greeting.  You know it’s not just in Wal-Mart anymore.  Greeters now man the portals of Kohl’s and 7 Eleven, among others.  Who knows?  Maybe someday soon someone will look up when I’m trying to spend money in Best Buy. 

Not to be scoffed at, professional greeting requires finesse.  It’s not easy to create a welcoming atmosphere while simultaneously calculating the criminality of the incoming customer.   

You see, greeters provide an unseen service:  Robbery prevention.  That’s right.  Research shows that patrons who are met with eye contact and a verbal salutation when entering commercial establishments are less likely to rob the cashier.  I applied this concept at my school, stationed on the sidewalk, waving and calling out to parents and students each morning as they arrived on campus.  We were never robbed.  That one kid did give me the finger though. 

I could be that girl who sprays you with a cloud of Jay-Z’s musk when you wander into Macy’s, unprepared to take evasive action.  But I haven’t been a girl since I made a graceful transition to young woman in 1966; and I’m morally opposed to ambush. 

So yeah.  I’m thinking Secret Service chaperone.  You know it pays better than public school employee, and Cartagena outstrips a Homecoming Dance for cache`.  The players have changed, but the job description remains the same:   

·         Keep a jaded eye.  Even the sweetest operative can be the most conniving and creative in evading detection.

·         Be wary of Eddie Haskell.  You remember two-faced Eddie.  He’s present whenever turpitude is in the air.  He’ll shine you on while slipping working girls around the back.

·         Don’t dance with your supervisees.  No matter how young you feel, cell phone video doesn’t lie.

And of course,

·         Bring your breathalyzer.  Don’t leave customs without it. 

I hope I haven’t given too much away.  Positions are sure to be limited and competition intense, even among us oldsters.  But as I say, I have an edge. 

Fireworks are for Old Folks

I used to tell my friends I’d be the oldest living person at America’s Tri-Centennial Celebration. That would put me at 127 years old. Turns out I’m not as far off as it might have seemed back then.

At the recommendation of the Wall Street Journal, I completed a longevity calculator - four different ones, in fact; and they’re telling me I could live well into my 90’s. All of them.

I guess that’s good news.

What I’d really like to do is get my friends and family to run the numbers on themselves. See, I’m unsure how much fun it will be to reach 99.8 years, as one of the calculators predicts, if I am to be alone with my oatmeal.

Susan, my cat, is 21 years old. I think that’s about 300 in cat years. She moves in slo-mo now, carefully securing solid placement for one paw before lifting the next. Like a sloth.

Her life doesn’t seem so bad though. It’s just that her world has shrunk.

Gone are the days when she roamed our lot stalking squirrels and birds and bugs, tormenting our passive yellow lab, Ted, (whom she’s outlived by nine years), and romping through the house with her favorite leopard skin catnip mouse.

Now she has a meal, a poop, (in one of the multiple boxes strategically placed for her echolocation), and a day sunning on the deck, or napping on a heating pad. We can dream of such an existence.

And she’s virtually weightless.

OMG! Just the thought of becoming so tiny. Especially after being so…not tiny.

I want to be one of those surprising old women. The one who’s still writing, who college kids think is a kick. I don’t just want to say what I think; I want to think funny, incisive, no, piercing thoughts.

Yes, when folks are at their wits’ ends, casting about, wondering “what the heck?” suddenly, something I’ve said will pop into their heads and they’ll feel better. Lately, it’s been: When you’re going through hell, keep going.

I stole that of course. But I’m going to start recording all my clever insights, so by the time I’m 80, let’s say, or 85, I’ll have amassed a veritable panoply of pithy sayings.

The Anderson Cooper of the era, no, the Jon Stewart, will call me up for on-air interviews. Like when David Letterman calls his mom. You won’t see me; you’ll only hear my voice, bright and tinny. I’ll lampoon the newest president, poke fun at democrats and republicans, and make you laugh with my snappy wit. If you’re still alive, that is.

Of course I’ll be a dancer. I’ll be one of those tiny curved women who wear a leotard in front of a mirror, waving her spindly arms in the air, glorious. Feeling as if she looks good. Just like now when, on a rainy day, I play my “Just Dance” CD on the Wii and pretend I can keep up, pretend I rock. I still have the moves.

If I have to go to an old folks home, I’ll be the spark, the one the nurses won’t mind feeding. Maybe a high school girl will volunteer her time as a part of her senior project. She’ll sit with me and tell me about her boyfriend. I’ll make her blush, just as my grandma did me.

But in the short term I have to go to my husband, the man who helped me retire a year ago, and tell him I might live a long, long time --- longer than we expected. He’s already a little suspect of my earnings-free existence. I don’t know if we have 99.8 years’ worth of rent and Top Ramen. I might have to mow lawns to justify the added years.

He’s younger than I am - my husband. And since women typically outlive men, I’ve always thought it would average out and we would die more or less on the same day. I like the concept since it involves no sorrow. I’m already steeped in sorrow for those who’ve gone ahead. Not sure I could bear it if he up and decided to go before me.

He has better genes than I do, so the calculators are probably on his side. But I don’t want to go first.

I want to light a Roman candle at the Tri-Centennial.

Happy and Productive

Rob isn’t a suspicious guy. He’s the most supportive husband, really. But I get the feeling lately that he’s checking up on me.

So every day I prepare a list and memorize it. It’s like “What I Did on My Summer Vacation,” only it’s how I spent my Monday (or Tuesday, or Wednesday…) now that I’m retired.

To remain above suspicion, I am ready to recite my list at his daily prompting: “What did you do today, Honey?”

“I walked 4.3 miles,” I begin, having tracked this on my trusty pedometer. This always pleases him. I give him details of my walk to give it weight and credibility. “I went all the way to the Arsenal and up Jefferson to the Mansion.”

It pleases me too. I’m always glad to be keeping my word.

Rob’s not the only one. When I announced my retirement this spring, all manner of people began asking what I was going to do in my retirement. I think it was hard for them, and for me, to imagine how it would feel not to have the constant intense stimulation of being a high school principal. I loved the whipped up frenzy of a school day, doing important work, helping young people, making the world a better place, so I hoped.

But like most folks, I kept a list of things I’d do given the time bestowed by a big jackpot. That’s the jackpot of retirement --- time. But my dreams seemed mundane in the telling. Smiles of the well-wishers got rigid and eyes glassy when I said I wanted to learn to play the piano!

Yet when I said I would take a walk every day, people smiled. So that became my pat and only answer, unless I was talking to the kids at school. More than anyone, the kids took my retirement personally. So when they asked what I was going to do, I said, “Miss you!”

Our family developed a saying years ago. Having determined that we were happy when we were productive, we sent each other off each morning with, “Have a happy and productive day!” instead of, “Have a nice day.” It soon got shortened to simply “Happy and Productive!” This eventually morphed to the quick and cryptic, “H & P!”

It’s not a bad motto, H & P, but it does carry a burden. How to define “productive”?

When I was a principal --- never a doubt about my productivity. I helped every day. My charge and my goal was to ease pain, facilitate learning, lift up, make smile, pave the way to success for students and teachers. I was hard after it and secure in the H & P.

For Rob there’s no question. He works hard out in the world. Business attire. Commute. Office functions. Emails and flow charts. Oh yes. Capital “P,” Productive.

When he comes home, he’s a project guy. He’s not just handy; he’s skilled. He loves working on the house and the fruits of his labor are evident immediately, and at every stage. We can point to lots of things he’s done to improve our home. VP. Visibly Productive.

For me now, in my new role, if I point to a shelf of books I’ve read, am I productive too? Somehow reading gets little respect among the items of my recitation. Still I include it, resolute in its value. It feels like I’ve barely read anything for 30 years! I’m entitled.

I am learning to play the piano. Teaching myself at the moment with the help of Schaum’s Pop Piano Course and a Craig’s List digital piano. I can now play three songs with both hands well enough to perform right alongside any six-year-old. I’ll take “Instant Piano” through Benicia Parks & Recreation this fall, and real weekly lessons after that. Is that productive?

And I write. Of course, I write. A memoir. A screenplay. A blog.

You can see why I create the list, can’t you?

So I walked and I read and I practiced my chords. I wrote. I did laundry, bought groceries and more. Grew zucchini, tomatoes and spinach and dill. Tracked electric consumption and paid every bill.

There, Honey, that’s my list. That’s what I did today.

I know.

It sounds like Dr. Seuss.

I was happy.

But was I productive?

A Pretty Package for a Penis

I painted over the penis today. 

It was on my walking path.  Teenagers and spray paint:  A bad combination.  They painted a penis right on my walking path!

I'm retired now and making good on my promise to take a walk every day.  And there it was --- so annoying.  Sometimes I stepped over it; sometimes I stepped right on it.  Either way it did not feel good.

It's hard to measure the impact of such a negative gesture.  Once you know it's there, resist as you might, your eyes are drawn to it.  Damn it!  For those few moments every day I had to think about a penis I didn't want to think about.  Totally uncool. 

What's in the mind of a kid who paints such a thing on a path like that?  Here's a penis for all to see!  Hahahahaha!  (That's a feindish laugh.)

Old ladies, little girls!  Looook!  A PENIS!

Or maybe it's territorial, like a dog peeing judiciously as he goes:  I've been here!  This little square of pavement is MINE all MINE!  Again with the laugh.

Do penis painters go on to other crimes?  Yikes!  I shudder to think.  What's the next logical step?  Wagging it?

Once, at the school where I was principal, I came onto campus at 7:00am to find a kid had painted a giant penis on the asphalt quad over night.  It was easily twenty feet long in yellow paint.  Appropriate somehow.

I imagined that the kid was mad at me for some disciplinary action I had taken.  Quid pro quo.  You suspend me, I paint a penis.  But in this case, I couldn't think of any student who had reason to be mad at me---a rare circumstance for a high school principal! 

Nothing else to do but call Maintenance.  I asked if they would come out and paint over it before brunch time. 

Our District had a very good practice of painting over graffiti and tagging immediately, so it wasn't too long at all before I could see the maintenance crew first standing with their hands on their hips, staring down, and shaking their heads, then bending over the asphalt and painting.  When I looked again a few minutes later, they were gone, leaving a set of cones around the area to protect us from walking on the wet paint.

But then, when the bell rang for brunch and I headed toward the quad to supervise the students, I saw half a dozen of them standing around the edge defined by the cones, looking and laughing.  I joined them to find that the maintenance crew had indeed painted over the yellow paint.  Very carefully, with black paint, distinct on the greying asphalt, they had re-painted the outline of the penis.

"Mrs. Plath," a football player feigned serious concern, "what do you make of this?"  My turn to shake my head. 

Maintenance had to make a second trip out that morning to paint a twenty foot black box on the quad.  Only a hand full of kids and I know what's in the box.

So this morning, I carried a can of my own spray paint to the scene of the crime on my walking path and went to work quickly.  My only regret is that I didn't have concrete-colored paint. 

But let me assure you, my enigmatic silver box is much nicer than its contents.

Getting Over It --- Whatever "It" Is

I've just been reading Deepak Chopra on happiness.  You know what that means.  I've gotta get over something.

I might be getting a little hypochondriac-ish.  Gotta get over that.  But I have a lot of stuff going wrong with me.  I was playing on my Wii and stretched a tendon in the arch of my foot past the point of no return.  That's a kick in the pants.

What if I'm on my way to dowager-ville?  Some people gain weight in their hips or thighs.  I might gain weight on my back!  Up high.  Oh no!Quasimoto!  With hips and thighs.

I've got a a floater in my left eye.  It does as its moniker suggests, drifting in and out of my field of vision just when the six pack abs commercial comes on.

My mood - mostly okay.  I quit saying, "Fine," when people ask how I'm doing.  Partly because George Carlin said it's inane to say "fine," and partly because I've realigned my responses to more nearly match reality.  "Fine" could be overstating it.  Sometimes I say "groovy."  I haven't been truly groovy in many years, but I enjoy the reaction.

But am I happy?  Sure.  Except, the more I know the less lee-way there is.  Smaller margin of error.

I remember in The Big Chill, Mary Kay Place is talking to JoBeth Williams about the men she meets.  She says with her experiences she can size men up in the first 10 seconds after she meets them and know whether they're worth any effort.  JoBeth says, "Well, at least you give them a fair shot."

That's me.  I can zero in on the salient pretty quickly now.  With age and experience comes insight, sometimes mistaken for wisdom.  It just doesn't take that long to size up the newest ride and figure out if it's worth buying a ticket.

But often enough I'm wrong, and I love a surprise.  For example, I can cook!  I'm pretty good at it.  Who knew?  Check out The Flavor Bible. 

I still hang out with kids for the wonder.  Dogs and cats rock.  Simple and deep all at once. 

Often joy comes in the familiar:  Seeing my husband peek around the living room corner again this evening.  Returning to Yellowstone.  Watching The Sixth Sense the sixth time.  Replaying Achmed the Dead Terrorist and laughing like an Alzheimer's patient.  "Silence! I keel you!"

Can you hear me Deepak?  I'm happy I tell you.  I'm over it, whatever it was.

Crossing a threshold

I asked my dreaming self if I could really retire---a big decision!

I dreamed I had an invitation to change my life.

A lanky man said he loved me, wanted me to come with him, away from the life I know. He showed me what he offered and I was drawn in.

I had to change my clothes and jump from an impressive height onto a suede and leather cushion in a beautiful wood paneled room. An indoor pool stretched wide. It wasn't too deep for me, the scaredy-cat swimmer. A wall of windows three or even four stories high showed a snow-covered mountain side and deep lush valley. Exhilarating! I grinned, tingling with anticipation. Let's go!

Then, in my dream, I remembered: I'm married. I don't want to get a divorce! What was I thinking? I can't do any of this! I can't change my LIFE.

I can't keep what I have and get what's calling me...

Now, you know dreams aren't literal. But they can give us insights into our waking life.

This one shows the dichotomy, the struggle. I do want to change my life, to retire. Even though I love my life. Even though I'm married to it, identified by it. I'm drawn to another beautiful retired life.

What to do?