Retirement Planning — Condo Interrupto

Six months ago I was operating on the assumption that we would be living in a condominium by now. As the calendar rolls over into November, I’ve come to terms with spending yet another winter in our big old house.

There are more consequences to this than the obvious. Yes, dear reader, condo interrupto is presenting challenges that would surprise even the glass-half-empty among you.

Up ‘til now, the weather was atypically warm. As a result, the leaves are still on the towering oak on the front lawn, which lawn is still growing and in need of mowing. Fortunately, I did not sell the mower. The same cannot be said of the hedge clippers, and most of the bushes are badly in need of haircuts. Today I arranged to borrow an electric trimmer from a neighbor. That should tide me over until spring. (Let’s hope St. Joseph comes through with an early sale.)

This week, the weather turned bitterly cold. I guess we’re being punished for the warm September and most-of-October. We put the puffy duvet on our bed a few nights back. Usually we also drape a quilted bedspread over the headboard—a high one made of openwork white metal. The doubled-over spread cushioned against drafts, but it was nowhere to be found.

At first I thought it was one of the many things rolled down to basement storage. Then I remembered that I donated it to the nuns, along with almost-matching curtains that we never used in this house. The stager recommended new bedding, and I figured we’d have no use for the old spread once we downsized. Condo interrupto strikes again. The new spread has to be kept pristine for house showings, so it’s not a headboard option, but I’m sure there’s an old comforter somewhere that will get us through the winter.

The sudden change in the weather also sent me in search of warmer clothes. I remembered packing a lot of my winter things into suitcases, but which ones and where are they? The large one under the bed in the smaller guest room turned out to be full of antique dolls that the stager had banished. After another few false starts, I located my turtlenecks and sweaters in the cedar closet. The hats, scarves and gloves, however, are still on the lam.

Not on the lam, but forced from the house, are several large pieces of furniture shoved into a corner of our garage—an unheated structure with ill-fitting windows. I’m trying to sell two of the items, but they won’t be worth much if they spend the winter out there. Looks like condo interrupto means I’ll need to make room in the basement.

Of course, monthly budgets must now be reconfigured to factor in extra heating expense and snow removal. Good news: I did not sell the shovels at the yard sale. Better news: I’ve decided to replace our old oil burner with a new gas one. There are all sorts of incentives to convert this year, and it will be one less roadblock for a potential buyer.

We may have to put plastic on some of the larger windows in the master bedroom. The stager had us get rid of all the insulated draperies that helped keep the drafts out. Now all we have are sheers. They let in a lot of light and they’re great for showing the house, but not very practical when a nor’easter is howling outside.

Which reminds me: the stager also took down half of the insulated draperies in the sunroom (which is mostly windows.) Same story here with regard to warmth, but at least I folded up those and stored them in the laundry room. They’re probably badly wrinkled, but once they’re re-installed they’ll have all winter to hang out.

Come to think of it, now that I’m retired, I’ll have all winter to hang out, too. I’ll be doing it in a much larger place than I’d planned, but it’s been our home for 19 years. Maybe having one more winter here unexpectedly won’t be so bad after all. Now if I can just remember where the stager made me stow the wine rack…

Retirement Lessons — Run for Your Life

Last weekend I attended a first-ever reunion of the people who spent their summers in the town where I grew up. More than 120 showed up, with ages spanning three decades. My own group was well represented, including a half dozen women camped out at the family cottage one of the men still owns. Yes, you read correctly: six women and one man, and nary a cat fight the entire time.

It was a fabulous weekend. Exhilarating, yet humbling. And upon reflection, motivating. By my own assessment, I was one of the least fit women my age (or older, perhaps, as well.) One of my peers, who looks to be about size four, was out running every morning at 6:30. I was the last one to get up both days (yet one of the first to bed—after the runner retired, of course.)

As it happened, I had my semi-annual check-up this week. My doctor was pleased that my blood pressure continues to be under control with minimal medication. He did not mention that there is still too much of me. When I brought this up, he claimed not to remember ever having said that. But even in my most self-deprecating moments, it’s not something I would have made up.

A few days ago, my husband forwarded an article from the UK Guardian News on an Indian man who just set the record for being the oldest person to finish a marathon. He’s 100, and he didn’t start serious running until he was 89. His photo shows him in a brightly colored turban, his long beard bifurcated by the breeze, and wearing a T-shirt that reads “Sikhs in the City.” Marathon not withstanding, you have to admire a Punjabi centenarian with a global sense of humor.

All of this has me thinking that the time has come for me to take up a serious exercise program. I used to jog a few miles several times a week. I stopped that well over a decade ago and assumed it would be fruitless to try to reestablish such a routine. Seeing at least one of my peers “just doing it” (running, that is) and reading that others only just began running in their eighties have inspired me. Not to mention that my college reunion is coming up in May.

I’m not foolish enough to go for a run straight out of the gate. I plan to start with an invigorating walk a few times a week. In fact, I convinced my husband to take a stroll with me on our anniversary last Thursday. (He took the day off so we could spend some quality time together.) This afternoon I went for a brisk, forty-five minute walk. Small steps, but that’s how many long distance efforts begin.

Those of you who are my neighbors should keep an eye out for the two of us walking the Boulevard on Sunday mornings. My husband is Punjabi, but he doesn’t let his beard grow; and he’s not a Sikh, so there won’t be any turban on view. However, he can be recognized by his walking stick, a bamboo-like affair with a crook’d handgrip. I’ll be the one in the printed T-shirt, but it’s more likely to be promoting some charitable event than a TV show.

If you recognize us, be sure to call out some words of encouragement. We’re likely to need them. After all, we’ll be running—or more accurately, walking—for our lives. And for my next reunion.

Retirement Pleasures - Reunion Expectations

The town where I grew up was mostly a summer community but my family lived there year round. Summers brought an influx of seasonal friends. We were a close-knit group during our teens, but I began to lose touch once in college. My summer jobs often had me working weekends—prime beach time for most people.

Recently, many of my summer friends reconnected via Facebook. They’ve put together a reunion that is taking place in that lake community this weekend. That means I’ll be away from a computer for two and a half days, so this post is a day earlier than usual.

I’m excited about seeing everyone for the first time in about forty-five years. I also have some trepidation about being the least fit member of my age group. (There will be people at the reunion who are a decade younger and older than we are, too.) I keep reminding myself that this is about catching up on our lives since our beach days, not about winning a beauty contest.

This is a good thing, because Thursday morning Luke’s claws did a number on my face. He lost his balance jumping from the night table to the bed and landed on my head. He regained traction using my upper lip and cheek. Luke has given me superficial scratches in the past, but this was an actual bleeder. I had to get out of bed to put peroxide on the wounds and apply pressure to get the bleeding to stop.

I complimented him on his timing: “You couldn’t have waited until Monday to do this, could you?” Then my “glass half full” perspective kicked in. “It could have been worse; he could have caught my eye with his claw.” And then: “Hmmm. Maybe there’s some fodder for my next blog post in this.” And sure enough, there was.

I decided that a few facial scratches could provide a good conversation starter at the reunion. Then I moved on to asking myself what exactly my expectations were for this get together.

One of the good things about reaching retirement age is that most of us have less curiosity about how people look at this stage of their lives and far more interest in how they spent those lives that has them looking so good (or so terrible.)

I’m a faithful attendee at my college reunions every five years, so I know there will always be female peers who look younger and fitter than I do. I also feel that the women generally look better than the men. I have a theory that the classmates who have not held up very well self-select to avoid these reunions. This is unfortunate, because I’ve developed some great new friendships with people I barely knew back in the day but spent time with at a reunion. If you don’t come, you can’t connect.

The get together with my summer crowd will certainly be filled with old photos and raucous stories recounted with colorful details that may or may not be accurate. But there will also be as much what’s-happened-since-then as we can fit in before we collapse into alcoholic stupors. Everything will be within walking distance, so the vino and the beer will surely flow freely. (Did I mention there’s an open bar?) There will be a jukebox with music of our era, so we’ll be dancing. Note to self: bring comfortable shoes. P.S. to self: bring an extra pair, just in case.

My focus will be on documenting the event, so I’ll have lots of photos to show my husband and current friends. I’ve charged my camera and it’s on my list of things to remember to bring with me. Likewise wine. And the platter of Italian cookies. A group of us women are staying at the family cottage of one of the men. He’s making us lasagna for Friday dinner. (The official event is on Saturday.) Can you say “harem?”

I don’t expect a pajama party full of 60 year olds to be sexy, but I’ll bet it will be memorable. I guess one of my expectations for this reunion is that it will provide inspiration for several blog posts when I get back home. Stay tuned!

New TV for Retirees

The fall TV schedule is underway. A recent Time magazine had an article on the new shows. A trend is emerging of sitcoms using formulas that used to feature male leads but now use women. I’ve learned that the next big trend will be sitcoms based on retirees. Some of those shows will build on the success of the female-centric ones.

One breakout hit this fall is Two Broke Girls, a sort of Odd Couple. A trust-fund baby now down on her luck hooks up with a blue collar have-not. Coming soon to retirement TV: The Odds and Ends Couple. This show features retired women who have become roommates; one has a pension, the other does not. The have-not’s survival strategy is to make do with stuff she finds in other people’s trash. She decorates her space in the shared apartment with odds and ends that are mostly odds. This causes tension with her pensioned roommate. I’m told there will be unpredictable plot twists, but I think we all know where this relationship is headed.

Another new fall show is New Girl, a reverse Three’s Company, where a nerdy girl moves in with three guys who take her under their wing like a sister. Retirement TV will be launching Four’s Company, featuring three widows and a widower. The producers hope that by having three women (instead of two) and one man, they’ll avoid the inevitable odd woman out of a threesome household. Good luck with that.

Last year’s hit Mike and Molly, whose female lead, Melissa McCarthy, earned an Emmy, provides a template for Bill and Betty. This new retirement show stars William Shatner and Betty “the cougar” White. The megawatt power of these two actors will guarantee initial success. I love both of them, so I hope the writers can provide the witty dialogue fuel to propel the sitcom into a second season.

The success of mainstream shows Modern Family and Parenthood has inspired the retiree equivalent, Dysfunctional Family. As with the other two shows, DysFam has an ensemble cast in roles that are so realistically disparate it’s like looking into a mirror. Every family has at least one of these folks in it somewhere. Picture the characters in Modern Family and Parenthood twenty years from now and you have an idea of where Dysfunctional Family is taking us.

Merry Widows is built around two retirees whose spouses recently died. They buy condos in the same development, with a shared goal of living a life of wanton delight. The show’s lead sponsor will be lingerie purveyor Victoria’s Secret. The stars’ identities are being kept under wraps, probably because there’s a lot of skin in each episode. This is one sitcom I expect to be mesmerizing. Or at least eye-popping.

My sources tell me that a role-reversal remake of the Golden Girls is planned. The working title is Platinum Boys. The premise is that once we reach retirement age, available men are at a premium. Worth their weight in platinum, so to speak, and hence fodder for some great story lines with cameos by well-known actresses. No word yet on who will be the male leads, but here are some suggestions to pick from. In alphabetical order—no favoritism: Michael Caine, Robert Duvall, Harrison Ford, Morgan Freeman, Richard Gere, John Lithgow, Steve Martin and Donald Sutherland. I’d ask for Clint Eastwood and Sean Connery, but I know that’ll never happen.

I also hear there’s a reality TV show on the drawing board that will feature retirees in an Amazing Race scenario. The winners get free hip or knee replacement surgery. All contestants must be in dire need of joint replacements in order to qualify to race. Needless to say, I’m skeptical that this one will ever get out of the starting blocks. Maybe the producers will have the foresight to make it a miniseries.

As you can see, there’s a lot of exciting TV fare planned for the retiree audience. It’s about time TV executives are taking us seriously. (As if.)

Retirement Pleasures - Instant Gratification

King Abdullah recently announced that women in Saudi Arabia would finally be allowed to vote. My husband enlightened me on the little-reported detail that the change would not take place until 2015. Talk about delayed gratification.

This snippet made me realize that the more comfortable I get in my retirement, the less patience I have with waiting for results, no matter how desirable they may be. I find this ironic, since retirement affords me so much more time to wait for things to happen, or get delivered, or be resolved.

Even the slightest delays annoy me. Take for instance the second or so needed for the newfangled squiggly fluorescent bulbs to light up once you flip the switch. The old incandescent bulbs (which were so much more flattering) went on the instant we summoned them to. Is it so much to ask to “let there be light” as soon as we want it?

You may be thinking: This is no big deal. What’s a little impatience now and then? Tell that to the tea kettle when I’m standing over it yelling: “Boil, damn it! Boil!” Or the washing machine when I’m urging it to “Spin, already. Spin!” Inanimate objects have feelings, too, you know. (Remember: I’m the hopeless anthropomorphizer.)

Don’t even get me started on delays that involve phone calls. I’ve developed a ploy to deal with companies that route me through multi-level menus and then put me on hold for the afternoon. I keep a stack of New York Times crossword puzzles nearby, put the phone on speaker and do the puzzles. In my mind, I’m making the company on the other end wait. It may sound silly, but it works for me.

I can’t remember the last time I took a rain check for some special that was out of stock at the local market. I didn’t like them even before I retired, because I usually lost them before the item came in. Now the very thought of a rain check makes my nostrils flare.

This need for instant gratification probably explains why you don’t see women over sixty who are pregnant. We’d never have the patience to wait nine months for the blessed event. I can barely tolerate the thirty-five minutes for a pizza delivery.

My retirement has had the side benefit that I have little need for new clothes. This is a good thing, because my width-to-height ratio invariably requires me to have alterations. Jacket sleeves shortened a tad, pants shortened a lot. When an event calls for new clothes, I have to plan at least two weeks between purchase and actual use. In my retirement, two weeks is an eternity, and my patience has already been shortened to the max.

You can imagine what a joy I am to be with when I’m stuck in traffic. The good news is that I’ve made a habit of learning alternate routes and back roads. More often than not, I’m able to avoid sitting at a total stand still. The travel time might be longer than planned, but at least I’m moving. It’s certainly better than hyperventilating through a major delay on the primary route, chanting “om, om, om.”

Websites that take forever to load are dead on arrival. I close the browser window and start over somewhere else. Likewise huge email attachments. There’s nothing I would want to see on my computer screen that’s worth waiting for, except pictures of my grandnieces and grandnephew. Fortunately, their parents know to send these low res, but I’d even take a rain check for them.

My newfound antsiness helps me appreciate Twitter’s appeal. With messages limited to 140 characters, communications are almost instantaneous. Bantering is as rat-a-tat as a tennis rally between top ranked players. I say this with no personal knowledge. Although I signed up for a Twitter account and made one maiden tweet, I don’t use it. The text option on our cell phones costs extra, and I’m saving my thumbs for more important things. Like leafing through crossword puzzles and jiggling the light switch.

I’d like to think this is just a phase I’m going through, and that in a year or so, I’ll have mellowed out. Maybe. But I doubt I can wait that long to find out.