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There's a joke I've heard in various
versions over the years, the gist of it being that the way to reach any age is
by waking up alive on the date in question. Today my human body has journeyed
around the sun for a total of sixty-five years.
I remember viewing sixty-five as both a
destination and the start of old age, the decline of life. It was a
destination, back when I was in my twenties and thirties, because that was the
enforced age of retirement. It still is, in many industries, though as more and
more folks cannot afford to stop working, REAL retirement might not happen
until age seventy or maybe not until death descends.
When my parents reached their sixties,
they seemed to count the days to my dad's retirement. His final few years on
the job were challenging. Management wanted young blood and curtailed his
ability to be the experienced, wise adjunct to the department -- a benefit not
a detriment. Nowadays, more companies do understand the benefits of experience,
but not then. Or so it seemed. They tried to convince him to take early
retirement and eventually he did leave earlier than originally planned. The
release from stress was worth it, I think.
Then came the adjustments. For my mom,
adjustments to a routine that counted on personal free time and not having
anyone underfoot. But soon they were scheduling adventures. They went golfing,
took trips to visit all four children who now lived far from home. My sister
and her son had returned home and became their built-in house sitter while they
traveled. Free at last to spread their wings and relax.
My perceptions about age sixty-five
shifted. It still seemed "old" but also held the promise of
experiencing the world without attachments to a daily job, competition for
promotions and the complications of children.
Now I've opened the door marked
"65" and, no surprise, the room on the other side appears the same as
the room I'm leaving.
I've been semi-retired for several
years. When my daughter was born, I became a stay-at-home mom. I worked
part-time after both children were in school and then the marriage relationship
came undone. Complications related to our son, mostly, left me unable to assume
a full-time job and after so many years home with family, my resume was sorely
lacking in anything that would interest employers in fields that once suited my
college education.
When separation led to divorce, I
believed the stories I told myself about older folks (older here being anything
over fifty) not welcomed in the marketplace. AND, ten years ago, that was reality
compared to changes since that time. These days there are too many baby boomers
needing to find new work or to continue working. They've elicited changes,
convinced businesses that their skills and stability made them desirable
employees.
But I decided it was time to seek out
what I'd never been able to pursue earlier in my life -- creative expression,
particularly writing. I had considered becoming a technical writer before my
children were born and contemplated that as a course to follow after the
divorce. I decided instead to pursue new directions, to dive into fiction stories, poetry and
essay composition.
Now I'm sixty-five and still figuring
out who I want to be when I grow up. Cliché but fitting. I don't see my road as
one headed for a tangled, dangerous forest. I see an open road, blue skies,
vast ranges of meadows, mountains, valleys, fun rivers and many, many people
and experiences waiting for me to explore.
And that's the designation I give to
this stage of my life: Explorer.
