I Grew Up to be a Walmart Greeter

I didn’t worry about what I would do in retirement.  I always knew I could be a Walmart greeter.

But my husband fretted about me as the date drew near.  He feared that after I left my prominent, powerful position; when the bright lights dimmed and the glory faded, that I might retreat to what he called “dark times.”

Dark times would be characterized by fuzzy slippers and fuzzy teeth, devotion to daytime TV,  bouts of nostalgia, and yearning for the good ol’ days of chaperoning dances and monitoring the cleavage of teenaged girls determined to show it. 

Did I mention I was a high school principal?  Oh yeah.  Good times.

Actually, I loved my job, the students especially, and the work in general.  But after 30 years, I was not sad to leave it behind.

Still, along with my husband, I did begin to wonder how I might spend my days when they were wide open, up to me, and demand-less.

Then I saw a piece on the news about a man in Berkeley who was retiring from a position he had created for himself after he retired. 

He might have been an accountant, or a mechanic.  It doesn’t matter.  Whatever it was, he did it for 32 years, collected his gold watch, and went home. 

Then, and this is key, he designated himself a waver.  He must have dreamed of it for a while before he put his plan into action.

You see, he lived on a busy stretch of road in Berkeley where Highway 13 dumps onto city streets.  So every morning and evening, during rush hour, he stood on the sidewalk in front of his home and waved at the commuters.  He smiled and waved.

A simple thing.  A small thing, but a big thing.  His modest gesture said things those folks might have needed to hear:  I see you.  You seem alright to me.  You’re worthy of my attention.  Good luck out there.

And they waved back at him, the commuters.  Many of them did.  They broke from the trance of their routines and made eye contact and waved.

For 25 years he stood there. 

And consciously or not, those travelers looked forward to seeing him.  Maybe in the beginning, when they first saw him there in his dungarees and plaid shirt, they had a question in their minds about him, but it was a good question.  Something like, “I wonder why he does this?”  “What does he get from waving to everyone?” or  “What does he get from waving at me?” 

I’m pretty sure that if at first they dismissed him as odd, or eccentric, those assessments gave way to an appreciation for the comfort of seeing him each morning.  Full of goodwill.  Asking for nothing.  Like your grandpa when he showed up for your swim meets.  Someone who was glad to see you for no other reason than there you were, and you were you. 

Now that my husband is retired, we watch the morning news together.  When the traffic report comes on and a map of the city’s commute arteries fills the screen showing tangled intersections and ribbons of red where sig alerts throb, my husband delights in his carefree circumstances, cup o’ joe in one hand and the Chronicle in the other.  He toasts the screen with glee and says, “You poor bastards!”

The Waver wasn’t thinking that.  He didn’t stand there for 25 years to rub it in ~ you’re going to work, and I’m not!

No, he wasn’t like that.  I’m sure of this because when he decided to retire from waving, throngs of commuters slowed down to wave one last time, or honk, or to tell the reporter how they’d loved him from behind the wheel.  They knew he was a good guy.  They would miss him.  He made a difference.

I want to make a difference and that man in Berkeley showed me how.  The job matches my skill set nicely.  

And now, as it turns out, in these times that feel kind of dark, these days of sheltering-in-place, of masks and gloves and ‘keep your distance, buddy,’ a greeter might make a difference.  I think I’ll give it a try.

Maybe I’ll see you on the pedestrian path in front of our house.  Lots of folks are taking advantage of the sunlight, walking by. 

I’ll give you a wave and a smile.  You seem OK to me.

Golden Years, tarnished

Uh oh.

I don’t want to sound the alarm prematurely – but I don’t want to be caught flatfooted either.

It’s probably nothing serious.  It’s just a twitch.  One of those eyelid flutters that no one else can see.  It’s nothing really. 

An anticipatory tic, that’s all.  A tiny, fleshy convulsion in solidarity with my Japanese sisters.  A sympathy spasm.

See, I ran across this article in Forbes reporting that waves of Japanese women are showing up at their doctors’ offices with physiological symptoms including rashes, nervous tics, upset stomachs and headaches. 

What could be causing this phenomenon on such a wide scale the medical community wondered?

What form of aggravation, what vexation, what unending source of distraction could so affect the normally serene Japanese woman? 

Researchers took up the gauntlet.  They donned their lab coats and furrowed their brows.  They clicked their ballpoints and scribbled on their collective clipboards.  They put their heads together, compared notes and ultimately arrived at a clinical diagnosis for that particular constellation of symptoms. 

And they gave it a name:  RetiredHusband Syndrome.

Da da daaaaah!

It’s official.  It’s real.  When your husband retires, RHS can make you itch!

And yes, you guessed it:  Mr. Plath is retiring.

But I doubt if this tic is directly related to his upcoming superannuation.  I mean we’re happy.  We so very happy that he gets to retire and be home with me.  All the time.  Daily. 

‘Til death do us part.

A friend of mine’s husband retired recently.  A doctor.  Hospital administrator.  Smart guy. 

She tells me he now waits passively each morning for her to supply his to-do list.  She compiles tasks for him at night during the time she had formerly designated for reading romance novels. 

So far he has fixed that chronically lopsided screen door, painted the guest room and laid new tile in the hall bathroom.  He changed the oil in both their cars, had the tires rotated and replaced the wiper blades.

He’s content to tick off item after item.  He offers no resistance.  No complaints.  A wife’s dream, right?

All she has to do is make the list.

She keeps a catalog of conversation topics too, to get them through breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Seems her husband has not only retired from the workaday world but also from all responsibility for adult conversation.

The stress of having him home has taken its toll.  My friend now evinces a sort of furtive countenance.  She laughs inappropriately; smiles through clinched teeth, searches my eyes for something – comfort maybe – or asylum. 

I worry what forensic technicians might find in her computer’s search history.

But it’s OK.  We’re not like that, Mr. Plath and I.  I’m more likely to give him the headache.

For one thing, he’s always been the more industrious half of our union.  He’s a kinesthetic sort of guy.  He comes home from 10 hours in the corporate world and starts right in replacing that warped board on the deck.  Or the roof of the dog house.  Busy, busy, busy! 

He visualizes and plans.  Measures and sketches out.  He buys materials and builds things. 

He uses my Customer Loyalty card at Ace Hardware so often that when I finally went in to have a key made and gave them our phone number, the kid at the cash register said, “You’re Carolyn Plath!?”

Not that I don’t work anymore.  I do things.  But the things I do don’t require so much…exertion.  I read.  I write.  I fold clothes.  I, I…oh quit bothering me!

That’s the reverse of having a stomach ache because your retired spouse is too much under foot.  I’m concerned that he’ll keep a demerit book filled with my shortcomings.

What if he starts tracking my movements, more accurately, my slo-mo progression through the days.  Will he be there tapping the face of his watch as I wake up from my afternoon siesta?  What if he can’t wait until I finish writing that book?!

Here’s my nightmare for Day 1 of his retirement, the day after the party.  I roll over at 6 AM to find him bedside, smiling at me.  “Good morning Honey,” he says.  “What are you going to do today?”

Gives me a rash just thinking about it.