I won’t grow up,
I don’t want to stay home.
And just do whatever I want
Like sleep or write a poem.
I won’t grow up,
I don’t want to stop working
And just do whatever I choose
Like Facebook lurking
Retirement. I guess that’s the next step in this growing up process. Nope, not me. Not yet. It’s not just about the dough, though that’s definitely a consideration; it’s more about liking my gig, the change of scenery, the chit-chatting, being out and about in the hustle and bustle, then returning to the cozy comfort of home and husband at the end of the day.
Besides, what would I do with the myriad job skills I’ve learned and used over a lifetime? If I won’t be using them, then they’re taking up valuable real estate in my brain. As it is, important stuff (like which movies I’ve already seen, whether I’ve already fed the dog, and whether I’ve already brushed my teeth) is leaking out because there’s just not enough room for everything.
It’s not that I’m afraid of being bored. The word is not in my dictionary. My closest friend recently retired and her days are filled to overflowing with cultural and creative pursuits, classes, nature walks, book club, exercise, yoga, travelling, inspired meal planning, seeing friends and family. Heck yeah, I could do that! And then there’s all that organizing, decluttering, and downsizing I’ve been meaning to get to, and civic and volunteer work I can finally make time for. But…but…
But at heart I’m an introvert, and a homebody, If I retire, I may never leave the house short of being dragged out, bribed, coerced, or threatened. Conscientious to a fault, I show up at work, rarely missing a day, rarely late. But if I didn’t have to show up, I might just stay in bed, or at least in my athleisure wear, and I might forget to brush my teeth.
[My apologies to PP for having taken certain liberties.]
Artist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.