Retirement Transition – Spousal Adjustment

My apologies to those of you who were lured to read this thinking it would be about sending your spouse off somewhere for a tune-up, hoping he or she would be returned performing more to your liking. This post would perhaps be more accurately titled “How to Help Your Spouse Adjust to Your Retirement,” but I like my headings short.

Regular readers of this blog know that I plan to downsize to Vermont soon after my retirement at year’s end. A logical consequence of this is that my husband (who is eleven years my senior) will also semi-retire and move with me. Those who know Jagdish might call it an illogical consequence, since my husband is attached to the stool in his retail store by a virtual umbilical cord. This naturally raises concerns in my mind about how he’ll adjust to “our” retirement.

The back story is that when we married 20 years ago, I gave up my friends and moved from my comfort zone in New Jersey to be with Jagdish in Providence. We agreed that our retirement move would be to the place of my choosing, which is near my family in northern Vermont. We’ve spent many holidays there and we both like that area. Our plan is for us to have side-by-side desks, where I’ll write and he’ll work on the website for his store, with my help.

This does not make me any less concerned about how my husband will adjust to the move. Ostensibly, his store sells clothing, jewelry, wind chimes, incense and all sorts of gifts. It’s in a college community and his best selling item is the Schnoz tissue box in the shape of Shakespeare’s face; the tissues dispense from—you guessed it—the bard’s nose. (It just occurred to me that this is ironic, since my husband shares the distinctive feature of many males in his family—an unusually large nose.)

Spectrum India could easily be described as a bustling, colorful bazaar. However, one of my husband’s friends was on point when he told him: “You’re not running a store; you’re running an ashram.” From his stool behind the cash register, Jagdish dispenses not just change, but also advice. People call him “the guru of Thayer Street.” He’s a cross between a resident philosopher and Gertrude Stein, holding daily salons where people come to discuss the issues of the day. Or night, as he rarely closes before 1 AM.

On a one-on-one level, he also serves as a psychologist/counselor. He recently told me about someone who was sad, in part because she had no money to spend. This was his advice to her (probably given along with the gift of a peacock feather.) A lot of the good things in life are free, so enjoy them. The air is free, at least until someone figures out how to put meters under our noses, so breathe deeply and more often. [The image of a meter under Jagdish’s nose made us both laugh.]

His advice continued. Smiles release endorphins and serotonin, so smile all the time, even when you are sad; it will lift your spirits. Hugs increase the hormone oxytocin, and that makes you feel good and reduces stress. So find someone to hug each day. If you can’t find someone else, then wrap your arms around to your back and hug yourself. [I checked this out. He was reporting the results of an actual NIH study.]

He even had a specific dosage for that last item (which he claims her heard somewhere, but it wasn’t in the NIH study.) You need 4 hugs a day to survive, 8 hugs for daily maintenance, and 12 to thrive. He also hypothesized that too many hugs could cause an overdose of oxytocin. I have no doubt he gave the sad young woman four hugs before she went on her way.

Simple advice. Easy to follow. Delivered so earnestly and with such charm, that no one can resist him. So you see why I’m concerned about our pending relocation. I’ve suggested that Jagdish should bring his stool with him to Vermont. Perhaps there is a store like his own on Church Street in downtown Burlington. He can ask the owner to let him sit by the door, chatting and dispensing advice and philosophy. And maybe hugs.

If that doesn’t work out, he can always just breathe deeply, smile and hug me. At least 12 times. With the hours he currently spends in his store, that’s about 10 hugs more than we get to share now. With our luck, we'll get carried away and wind up institutionalized for a hug overdose. I have a vision of our therapy sessions—touching but no hugging. We are making molds of each other’s faces to create customized Schnoz boxes. His are selling like hotcakes at Spectrum.

Retirement—The Arc of Life—Bell Curve or Swoosh?

Picking up on Saturday’s post: I thought things would get simpler as I approach retirement. Instead they are more complicated. I expected the arc of my life to be a bell curve, with the X axis for complexity and the Y for the years. Life would start out very simple, get progressively more complicated, and gradually get simpler once again toward the end. I’m finding it more of a Nike-like swoosh, trending upward in its complexity.

The possibility that life will keep getting increasingly complicated is scary. If I remember my physics classes, to get a bell curve, I’d need to find external forces to exert pressure on the end of that swoosh to bend it down into one of Malcolm Gladwell’s long tails. There’s something inherently contradictory in it being so complicated to get simpler. With my luck, the swoosh would coil in on itself, creating a spring. I have a vision of me, flung off into space, where I’ll drift for eternity among the other debris in the upper atmosphere. So much for a long tail and metaphors.

It gets me thinking about graphing other aspects of life into retirement. The Y axis is always the years, but the X axis can be so many other things. Here’s how I see some of them.

Income is generally a bell curve, while expenses are usually a bell curve ending in a swoosh of medical expenses. Of course, if one becomes a successful author later in life, income could be a swoosh, too. (Another shameless appeal for more of you to follow my blog.)

Number of friends – sadly, a bell curve. However, friends to whom you are connected can be a swoosh, thanks in part to Facebook. As a matter of fact, a recent AARP survey of 3,000 plus people 45 and up shows that loneliness decreases after age 60. They probably conducted the survey in those retirement communities in Florida that are known for line dances and member-produced Gilbert & Sullivan operettas.

Moving on. The hair on your head – bell curve (women included.)

Original teeth in your mouth – bell curve.

The food you can eat – bell curve. Babies start out with limited diets and lots of soft mushy food. Need I say more?

My husband’s weight – bell curve; my weight – swoo-oo-oosh! I’ve often said there should be a law against husbands weighing less than their wives. Unfortunately, Jagdish won’t put on even a pound or two of sympathy weight.

Ailments, aches and pains, medications – swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

Sex – generally a bell curve, although some retirees claim it’s a major swoosh. I don’t want to reveal too much about my life in the sixties and seventies, but those retirees must have had pretty tame sex in their salad days if senior sex is considered swooshy.

I could go on for several more pages, but you get the idea. Feel free to weigh in with suggestions of your own.

As I reread this posting, I’m sensing a pattern here. The things that you would like to be a bell curve are generally a swoosh. The things you’d welcome as a swoosh are bell curves. It’s as though some higher power is playing a cruel mathematical game with us as we move into our retirement years—a game that goes on until we flat line.

I decide to make “A Grand Plan” for when I retire. I’m going to focus on one curve each year to see if I can change its aspect to something more favorable. Maybe I’ll start with turning sex into a swoosh again. That should make my husband happy, but I worry about getting too caught up in this metaphor. Another vision of me, this time whispering sweet nothings in Jagdish’s ear. As I catch sight of that swoosh taking shape, the marketer in me shouts Nike’s tag line: “Just do it!”

That sound you hear next is our sex curve flat lining.

Retirement Transitions—Donut Holes and Paper Trails

Yesterday I had my semi-annual checkup. It was the first time I used my new insurance (other than for prescriptions.) I presented my Medicare card, but could not find the one for my supplemental coverage. I rooted through a rubber-banded stack of cards an inch thick. Bank card, AAA, two AARP, countless membership and contact cards, a variety of appointment paperwork as far ahead as next summer. But no United Health card.

I stood there feeling half-naked, as though I had been caught without my “Friday” panties. (See posting from September 7 for explanation on that.) By dumb luck, I had next month’s bill in my purse, so they took my information from that.

Last night I scoured my purse for the missing card. It was there all along. That second AARP card I mentioned? A supplemental coverage card branded with their logo. The provider’s name, United Health, was buried in the mice type.

This experience added fuel to a fire that was sparked by some insurance paperwork that came last week. Since I have now completed my first month on Medicare, I received a report of my prescription drug claims for September. As I read closely, I realized I was holding the first accounting of my march toward the infamous donut hole.

You’ve probably heard of the donut hole. It’s that gap in coverage in a range of prescription drug payments. Coverage stops from $2,830 to $4,550 and then picks up again. I’m on several prescription medications, but if I’m ever taking so many drugs that I pass $2,800 a year in claims, I’ve been scarfing far too many donuts. Still, attention must be paid.

The report I received caused a bulb to light up. Not only do I now have multiple health insurance cards, I’ll have to set up a complicated system to track my medical expenses. I’ll need to record date of service, doctor’s name, amount billed, date and amount paid by Medicare, ditto for supplemental coverage and for payments I make. I haven’t met my deductible, so I’ll need to track that, too.

I am suddenly reminded of the later years of my mother’s life. My sister would come from Vermont and spend a week with our mother in New Jersey every summer. One of Barb’s tasks was to sort through all of Mom’s medical expenses and payments so she could file any errant claims. There were few personal computers back then, so everything was posted to green ledger paper using a system our father had set up years earlier.

Since I lived closer, I took our mother to doctors’ appointments, on special shopping trips and out to dinner occasionally. The medical paperwork was Barb’s contribution to Mom’s care. I remember thinking even back then that I had the better end of the deal. Now I feel that I owe my sister big time.

Back to my present day paperwork. I was finally feeling somewhat in control again when a hefty packet arrived in the mail. Turns out we’re about to enter the much-hyped “open enrollment period,” that once-a-year window when we can change our health care coverage without penalty.

Be still my heart. I spent much of August figuring out what coverage I wanted. Do you really think that just two months later I’m going to change my mind? (No comments, please.) I suppose I should at least open the envelope and skim the contents. What if there’s something I need to do even if I don’t want to change plans?

My lack of knowledge embarrasses me. With my self-confidence waning, I’m compelled to check my panties to make sure I’m wearing the right day. I discover they’re inside out, so I can’t tell. At least they’re clean and free of holes. My mother would be proud.

Retirement Planning – Clearing the Kitchen and Pantry

I’m not much of a cook, but I expect to do more of it after I retire. In preparation, I’m clearing out the kitchen and pantry to see which items are worth keeping. I’m finding things that haven’t seen the light of day since they made the move with me 18 years ago. To get started, I set out storage boxes labeled “Donate,” “Keep” and “Now What?”

With my kitchen foray, I’ve developed a theory that you can tell when someone was married by the wedding gifts they received. For my first marriage, we received at least three fondue pots during the decade of “Do you fondue?” (Did you?) Two of them turned up on the top shelf in the butler’s pantry—one for cheese, one for beef cubes. I can’t remember when I last used either of them. Gobs of melted cheese. Deep fried red meat. Cholesterol. Need I say more? I move both fondue pots to the Donate box.

There are countless cheese boards, so per my wedding gift theory, I married in the ’80’s, but I didn’t (either time.) Cheese boards must be like picture frames—the universal wedding gifts that transcend time and styles. Whatever the reason, though I use as many as three of them at a time for holiday entertaining, I need to get rid of some cheese boards. I put six in the “Now What?” box and change the label on it to read “Re-Gift.”

I also have more salad bowls than I need. The large stainless one and the wooden one get regular use, so they’re keepers. The glass one with the silver-plated rim was a gift (Re-Gift.) The plastic one matches all that picnic ware I bought and used once. Will we picnic when we’re retired? Keep, just in case. These hand-painted pasta serving bowls can also be used for salads. Keep, Keep, Keep.

One of my miscalculations is a mini crock pot that goes into the microwave so it cooks faster. My microwave is called the Half Pint; that’s not just a clever nickname; it’s close to its capacity. The mini crock doesn’t fit in it. Even if I have a standard microwave in our next abode, I’m as likely to be crock potting as fonduing. Into the Donate box it goes.

Be still my heart—it’s a pull-out shelf full of Corningware, the new bride’s best friend. I have everything from serving-sized bowls with plastic covers for leftovers to huge casserole-sized ones that are missing their glass lids. I rarely use any of it, but retirement will likely change that. Sorting through all of this will be a project in itself. I find another storage box, put back the label “Now What?” and fill it with the Corningware.

Another shelf has been hiding a similar trove of Tupperware. Pie holder—Donate; my mother was the baker; I can never compare, so why try. Iceberg lettuce holder—Donate; I’ve moved on to romaine and it won’t fit. Some sort of cheese or pound-sized butter holder—Donate; I have one that holds a single stick; I don’t need to encourage milk fat consumption. All the Tupperware has been dispatched, but I don’t feel smug. I know there’s another shelf with Ziploc bowls and used deli containers that still need sorting.

My Donate box still has a lot more room. I wonder if there’s a show like The Biggest Loser, but for people who need to get rid of stuff, not pounds. I could use someone like Jillian to be my tough-as-nails coach. “Don’t you dare put that in your Keep box! It’s Donate or the trash or you’ll never reach your goal. You can do it! Focus. Lift. Push.”

I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I need a glass of wine and a snack. I grab a cheese board from the top of the Re-Gift box. Hmmm… This is kind of cute—just right for one serving. Maybe I should keep it. Jillian is shouting something vile at me, but I turn off my mental TV, lean back and relax. I carefully stack slices of artisanal cheese onto gluten-free crackers. Who says I don’t know my way around the kitchen?

Retirement Planning – Greening Up the House

As if the road to salvation weren’t challenging enough, the Catholic Church added polluting to its list of mortal sins. That’s right, Gianfranco Girotti, The Vatican official who heads up the B-team on confessions and penitence put contamination of the environment right up there with the seven deadly ones. No word on what the head of the A-team thinks of this, though I’m sure he’d agree with Girotti’s postulate that “sin is social” in today’s global culture.

I’m not exactly a poster child for green living. I’ve never even hugged a tree, unless you count my lame attempt to rescue one of our cats when she was still a kitten. Still, I find it irresistible to improve my chances of making it through the pearly gates by reducing my eco-footprint. There’s the added benefit that greening up could shorten the time to sell our house when I retire. I read that home buyers are increasingly interested in how “green” a property is.

I resolve to become a cleaner, greener, holier (than thou) neighbor. My new mantra will be “Reduce, Re-use, Recycle.” To get organized, I start two lists: “to do” and “to buy.” My first “to do” as a born-again environmentalist is to locate my folder of dog-eared articles on conservation and the environment. It’s a fat folder, one of many on a variety of topics I’ve researched. (My previous mantra was “If you can’t recycle it, file it.”)

First on my eco-agenda is something called xeriscaping—an approach to landscaping that minimizes water usage. This is a propitious discovery, since the timer on our sprinkler system died last season. I consider the options, given that the only lawn we have is in front of the house. “Put a deck over the areas that get a lot of traffic.” That would be our entire yard and I’ve never seen a fully decked house-front on the East Side.

I rule out “Cultivate plants that require minimal water.” If I planted beds of cacti around our Victorian, the garden police would be at my door before you could spell xeriscape. I decide that keeping our grass is not really a social sin, since our lawn has proved to be the most sociable place for the neighborhood dogs to do their business. I add a “to do”: fix lawn sprinkler.

Next in my files on green technology is “geo-engineering.” Scientists are planning to put enormous mirrors into orbit so they can bounce sunlight back into space, presumedly to reduce global warming. As I gather information for constructing our “thousand points of light” cooling device, it occurs to me: our home is in a historic neighborhood. Construction not of the period (pre-1900 for us) is not allowed. I consult McAlesters’ “Field Guide to American Houses.” Surprisingly, roof mirrors are not included as identifying features for late 19th century styles. Yet another of my attempts to become greener has withered on the vine.

Increasingly frustrated and on the verge of panic, I add “Prozac refill” to my shopping list. Then I remember a leaflet someone stuffed in our front door years ago. It promoted greener alternatives to toxic cleaners and pesticides. I rummage through the kitchen drawer that every household has as its de facto filing cabinet and voila! I skim the section headings and pause on “Controlling Garden Pests.” Maybe I can create a “green” exterior.

The leaflet advises me to “promote beneficial pests such as fly larvae, aphids and thrips.” With all the holes the cats put in our screens, if I promoted fly larvae, I’d be scouring my supplemental insurance policy to see if it covers therapy. Aphids and thrips are two of the creatures I spray to get rid of. I’m skeptical that they can be their own natural predators, unless of course they have a primary system designed by the Democrats… Clearly this is another dead end on my path to salvation and a quick sale of our house.

With no more dog-eared files or leaflets, I remain a socially-challenged sinner. I realize I’m doomed. I am going to hell. I just hope it’s in an eco-friendly hand basket.

Retirement Planning – More on Thinning Out the Closet

Some who have read my earlier post on thinning out my many closets have asked what happens if I still have too much left after I “audition” my clothes. I have new criteria to address that inevitable situation.

The first came to me last weekend as yet another woman complimented the handbag I was carrying. It’s small white leather, with delicate painted flowers; the handles are yellow. I get frequent compliments on it, and I always share the story of how I lusted after it in a local Marshall’s store, but wouldn’t pay the price. One day I went in and it appeared that the bag had been sold. I found it tucked away in a far corner, on sale. I end this part by crying out “It was meant to be mine!”

Last weekend I was sure the bag shouted to the woman: “Please stop complimenting her! She’ll never give me up. I’m not supposed to be owned by a woman in her sixties. I belong with someone in her twenties!”

This led to my first two rules for clearing out more stuff. Rule 1: Keep things people always compliment, unless they fail rule two. Rule 2: Get rid of anything that should be owned by someone in her 20’s instead of her 60’s, no matter how comfortable it is and no matter how cute I think I look in it. (That’s why God invented mirrors…)

One of my previous posts prompted a guideline to keep a good balance of serious and light hearted. Some examples: a good interview suit (just in case) and a funeral outfit (also just in case, and the interview suit doesn’t count), balanced by a gypsy-style skirt and a jacket with Guatemalan embroidery; sensible black pumps, offset by red Chinesey platform slides.

I’ll get rid of things that are major magnets for cat hair and will trash any sweaters that have more than three moth holes, even if they’re well-darned. Anything that is no longer its original color gets tossed (except the white “Crazy Cat Lady” sleep T-shirt my brother-in-law gave me that is now pale turquoise.) Likewise anything that is missing a button, if those buttons would cost more to replace than what I paid for the item.

I’ll part with any shoes with buckles so small that I need a jeweler’s loupe to fasten them; but I’ll keep footwear that makes me smile when I look at my feet, especially my oxblood Doc Martin Mary Janes and my black patent duck-style rain shoes.

I’ll give away any article of clothing that has writing on it (unless that writing is in French;) all T-shirts will be exempt. Those of you who have been reading carefully will realize that the Crazy Cat Lady sleep shirt escapes the winnowing process even though it has writing on it, because it’s an over-sized T.

You should also not be surprised that I’m keeping that little white purse with the flowers. Even though it fails rule two, I’m saving it from exile because it provides the light-hearted balance to my serious black shoulder bag.

If you know me well, you probably now have an image of me sitting on our front porch, wearing that Cat Lady shirt and holding my flowered purse. People will whisper as they walk by, but I’ll just sit there quietly sipping a glass of wine. The more I think about it, I really am looking forward to retirement!

Retirement Style—Serious vs. Light-Hearted

Retirement planning guides devote more pages to calculating how much you’ll need to lead the life you desire than to how to decide what that life is. I’ve stumbled upon a criterion to help in that decision. What style of retirement do you want—serious or light-hearted? For example: joining an investment club—serious; playing in a band—light-hearted.

We all hope for a certain amount of balance in our retirement, but the dominant style could influence where you live, how you find new friends and what activities fill your dance card. Actually, I think those last two items may be redundant…

This came to me as I was doing email triage—read, skim, toss (or more correctly, delete). Thank you, Time magazine, for creating these categories in your Briefing section. Various criteria get my email tossed, including sender unknown, a multi-megabyte attachment, or a subject line that elicits one of those yawns so gaping it cracks your jaw hinge. It occurred to me that what separates skim from read is frequently whether it’s serious or light-hearted. Simply put, I’d rather read the funny stuff than the ponderous.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll ruminate as much as most folks on the important issues of our time. However, when it comes to a list of new emails that goes below the fold, I’ll opt for short and funny almost every time. This was driven home to me earlier this week.

One of my college friends has lived in Canada since graduation. We keep in touch via email. She forwards all sorts of messages, from humorous lists to lengthy diatribes against the U.S. government. I can’t quite figure out her political orientation (or perhaps more accurately, her husband’s, as I think he’s behind many of the missives.) They seem to be an amalgam of Michael Moore and right wing militia.

In any event, on the same day recently, she sent an email titled “Worth the Read” and another “Five Ways the Democrats Can Avoid a Catastrophe and Pull Off the Mother of All Upsets... a letter from Michael Moore.” I immediately tossed the catastrophe piece, but I opened “Worth the Read.” It was a list of twenty or so funny thoughts, the fourth of which was “There is great need for a sarcasm font.”

In my opinion, the need is beyond great. I could be essential to preserving society as we know it. As I read Item #4, I knew why I continue to open most of this friend’s email, even though much of it fails to get past skim. It’s because this friend, who early-retired quite a few years ago, still has a sense of humor. By the way, she plays in the community band, something she took up after she retired.

This led to an Oprah-like “aha!” moment. Very few of my friends seem to share my sense of humor. It wasn’t always so. Am I getting crazier in my old age? Or are they getting stodgier?

Another college friend emailed a group of us about career networking with young alumni. I followed the embedded link to learn about the program and landed on a page with a bar chart showing how many alumni in each decade participate. Our graduation decade, the sixties, wasn’t there. I replied-to-all that they must not be interested in old farts like us.

My expectation was to evoke similarly sarcastic comments. Perhaps: “Oh we’re there, but our numbers are so small, we’re just a flat line, not a bar.” I received two replies. One explained how important seniors are to the program, since we have valuable experience and we’re reaching a stage where we also have time to devote. The other was similarly serious. Looking back, I wish I’d had that sarcasm font for my comment.

I wonder what implications this has for my retirement. If I relocate where people are very serious, will I feel out of place? Will I have trouble making new friends? Or can I find folks with a sense of humor if I choose the right activities? Let me think a minute. If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know about my high school days as a band geek. My sister, who lives in Vermont where we’ll be moving, belongs to an investment club.

Perhaps her club would invest in a used saxophone so I can join the community band. (Insert sarcasm font here.)

Retirement Downsizing – Condensing the Bookshelves

Almost everyone who is downsizing for retirement has to face the daunting process of condensing shelves full of books. I’ve finally psyched myself up to attack this task. I begin with the bookshelves in the second floor hall, scanning groupings from top to bottom.

There’s the Women’s Lib section. Excuse me… Women’s Empowerment. I think I can part with The Female Eunuch and not put my self esteem at risk. There was a time when I might have thought Sexual Politics was an oxymoron; now it sounds like redundancy. Either way, it’s gone. As I recall, Men—An Owner’s Manual was not much help when I first got it. It doesn’t seem like a title that would improve with age, not that I'm a good one to judge. Besides, "In the land of the blind, the man with one eye" and all that.

I need the step stool to see the books on the very top shelf. There’s an entire section of poetry that I would have bet I had tossed two moves past. I count eight volumes of Rod McKuen. He was too cool in the sixties. Now I’d need to hide him under a brown paper wrapper. Who admits to reading titles like Listen to the Warm? Listen to the warm what? I wonder if he’s still alive. Some Googling confirms he is, but his appearances are limited to autograph signings. This makes sense, since Amazon lists most of his books from a penny to $3 or so.

One section that should be easy to trim is business management; I’m retiring, after all. I’m tossing everything with the words “Excellence” or “Minute” in the title. I learned long ago that when it comes to business, it’s far better to under promise and over deliver. Ditto on trimming the “How To” section, where I’ll toss everything with “Dummy” or “Idiot” in the title. I don’t need to be constantly reminded of my self image when I bought them.

Ah! Here’s a group I should be able to thin out—foreign language and travel. I pick up one that I don’t remember; it’s a street and transportation guide to Paris. It’s so detailed it includes a section on one way streets. The book was published in 1977. In all likelihood those Sens Unique are four lane roads today. (For those who are wondering, Sens Unique is not French for psychic powers.) The most use I’d get out of this book at this point in my life is as toilet paper. It’s better quality than what was nailed to the stall walls the last time I saw Paris.

I should really get rid of most of the pocket sized dictionaries, but they take up so little room. You never know when you might be called upon to translate something into Latin. At the very least, I should get rid of the guides for any countries that require more than two immunization shots. At my age, I’ll limit my travel to places that have flush toilets and pouffy duvets.

I expect to cut back a lot of the section on doll collecting, toys and miniatures. Then I remember that four of those stacked a certain way are exactly the right height to lift a box fan set on the dresser enough so its breeze passes over the footboard of the bed. Since I can’t remember which four and I don’t know if I’ll have central air where we retire, I’ll need to keep all of them.

Those books on collectibles are thick suckers, as are my many art books. I remember the comment of someone I had coerced into helping me move to a new apartment many years ago. As he was lugging yet another pile of books to the van, he asked, “Do you buy your books by the pound?”

The answer of course was “no.” But when I consider the cost of relocating our household, I just might get rid of some books based on how much they weigh. Suddenly those thin little Rod McKuen books are looking like keepers after all. Maybe I’ll even get them autographed. Or not.

Retirement – What If There Were A Final Exam?

Last night I had one of those anxiety-laden dreams that most of us have now and then. It was the one where you’re late for a final exam and you forgot to study.

For me, those dreams usually follow a dinner of marbleized red meat or highly-spiced food. The rotisserie chicken I had last night was supposed to be the plain version. It dreamed more like lemon pepper coated with Tex-Mex and it just wouldn’t go away. Finally I got out of bed to re-brush and floss and drink more water. My hope was to banish any last remnant of the meal, and the dream along with it.

When I got back into bed, the dream mutated into a nightmare. Now I was stressed over a final exam to qualify for retirement. The scariest part was that it seemed perfectly reasonable that the government could require such a test.

Question 1: What is your full retirement age? That’s easy: 66. A bell sounds. This is going to be a piece of cake.

Next question: Part I. How much money can you earn after retirement before Uncle Sam starts taxing your Social Security benefit? Part II. Does that figure include your Social Security money or is it in addition to it? I have no idea. That’s why I have an accountant handle my taxes. I take a guess at $25,000. A buzzer sounds.

Question 3: When did Social Security begin and what was the original name of the act? I decide to Google this one so I don’t get it wrong. (It’s comforting to know we can Google in our dreams.) I learn that it started in 1935 and it was originally named the Economic Security Act. This strikes me as so hilarious that I hardly hear the bell through my peals of laughter. Economic security. As if.

Question 4: What percentage of people die within two years of starting to collect their Social Security? Government test preparers have a warped sense of humor. I Google. I Bing. I Ask Jeeves. No one can tell me this. I have the uneasy feeling it’s a larger percentage than I want to know, so I say a comfortingly low 5% and wait for the buzzer.

Question 5: Name the three rock-and-roll icons killed in a plane crash in 1959. I know this one. I start writing: Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. I’m surprised to hear the buzzer again. Turns out I’ve spelled Ritchie’s first name wrong. As a side note, this reminds me that I still have a box of LP’s and some 45’s to get rid of.

Clearly this test is targeted to those on the cusp of the baby boom. I wonder if they’re trying to stress us into heart failure so we won’t be around to collect Social Security. I also start to wonder how many questions I can get wrong and still pass.

Question 6: What actress played Lara’s grown daughter (aka “the girl”) in Doctor Zhivago? Are you kidding me? How does that movie relate to retirement in the US? It happens that I was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago, so I know it was Rita Tushingham. In my dream, I see her clearly, carrying the balalaika. As the bell rings, I drift into visions of Julie Christie in a snowy wonderland. She’s wearing a fur bonnet, tied under her chin. It’s the same as the one my parents surprised me with at Christmas the year the movie came out.

I remember that I still have that hat in a box in the cedar closet up on the third floor. It’s not something I’ll need when I retire, so I make a mental note to add it to the donation pile in the morning.

Suddenly my dream is filled with ringing bells, like the stock exchange has erupted. A sign pops up: You’ve passed your retirement test.

I guess these questions had a purpose after all. When I woke up, I had a feeling of accomplishment. Not only had I passed my test, but I also had several cartons of stuff earmarked to lighten the load when we downsize. Not a bad haul for a night of crazy dreams, but I think I’ll lay off the rotisserie chicken for awhile.