Part 3: Bad Yeast Rising

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Now is the winter of our discontent.

~ William Shakespear.

Untouched for over a week, a thin layer of dust had already started to accumulate over the entire body of my guitar. A broken low E-string and a damaged wrist was the price for attempting to learn Marty Friedman’s epic guitar solo on Megadeth’s Tornado of Souls. I felt beaten, not even wanting to replace the string.

Purpose. That was my elusive opus.

Melville’s Moby Dick rested on the night-stand open to pages twenty-one and twenty-two, taunting me. My post-retirement quest to read the classics was severely hampered by archaic, colloquial dialog, and the minutiae of whaling ship operations.

Purpose. That was my great white whale.

To compound the malaise, my workout routine had been thrown into complete disarray. I don’t know why I chose to ignore the cut on my big toe caused by ill-fitting sneakers; I don’t know why I chose to reuse dirty sweat socks, allowing them to air-dry rather than simply throwing them in the wash. Whatever the case, my negligence had created a painful abomination on my toe.

Though in a funk, I still wasn’t regretting the decision to retire. Having had a job nearly continuously since my paper route at twelve years old, I was burnt out and needed to take some time. At least that's what I told most people (more on that later). My friend’s words continued to echo in my head: “So, what…you’re just going to do this shit for the next thirty years?”

Purpose. That word was always there, maybe just hanging out on the periphery of my consciousness but always there. I wasn’t yet ready to face it.

***

Sitting on the examination table, my podiatrist across from me, peering over the glasses dangling on the end of his nose, I waited for him to provide the solution to my foot issue. But first I had to run the question gauntlet on some unrelated topics.

“What do you do for work?” he asked.

“I’m retired.”

Look of shock. “You’re too young for that.”

It was a common observation; I just nodded.

“And how the heck did you achieve that?”

A common follow-up question, without a simple answer. “Well, I’ll give you the cliff-notes version: I didn’t always listen to the experts, I planned carefully, I lived below my means, and I had some good luck. I can assure you it’s not Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

Blank stare.

What I didn't tell him - after all he was my podiatrist not my therapist - was that after nearly thirty soul-draining years in the world of finance, I had to quit. There was nothing inspiring anymore about the work and it was an "all-in" type of job, where you were expected to respond quickly to an email received at ten o'clock on a Saturday night.

But most importantly, there was someplace else I needed to be. Eighteen hundred miles away, in a small town near Lubbock, Texas, my sister was dying. Without question, leaving that job was one of the easiest decisions I've ever made. Figuring out next steps would have to come later.

Post-retirement tips: The good doctor didn’t ask for further clarification, but I’ll provide some.

• Don’t always listen to the experts: They say your retirement income should be 70% to 80% of what you earned while working. Now, of course, this can vary greatly from person to person. Given my lifestyle, it was more like 20%. I would guess for most folks the percentage is also substantially lower than what the experts say.

• Careful planning: Having some decent skills with Microsoft Excel will help with this. Using a reasonable expectation of investment and other earnings, a very detailed estimate of my costs factoring in inflation, and running multiple scenarios, I calculated the dollar amount I needed to walk away. I quit my job four months after hitting that number.

• Living below your means: It all starts here; I could write a book about just this. From social media to the lending industry, the world is conspiring against you in this regard. Breaking the spending cycle of overspending (on the small stuff as well as the big-ticket items) is the key to building wealth.

• A healthy amount of good luck. Self-explanatory.

  
  

***

So, with the pleasantries out of the way, he provided the test results. I don’t recall the exact diagnosis, except that it was some sort of yeast infection embedded in my toenail. Though it would take a long time to completely heal, the treatment plan was straight-forward.

“I’m going to prescribe fluconazole,” he said, staring at me as if that meant something. Then he continued. “It’s commonly prescribed to treat vaginal yeast infections.” Another piercing stare. Was there a twinkle of enjoyment in those eyes? No, it couldn’t be. He’s a professional, right?

“Ok,” I said slowly. I don’t know what he was expecting me to say. “Well, if that’s what the remedy is then…” And I shrugged.

***

Numbly, I stumbled down the street, looking down at the prescription with my name on it. I wondered if there was an alternative treatment. Should have thought of that five minutes ago, I lamented. He was about my age and said he was still a long way from retiring. So, maybe prescribing fluconazole was bitter pay back for being up to his elbows in hammertoes and bunions all day? We'll never know.

I went directly to the CVS to get the order filled, taking my place at the end of a long line. You’re supposed to stand behind a white line to provide some level of privacy for the customer in front of you, but I could hear everything they were saying in front of me. Every…single…word!

The anxiety was building. Finally, it was my turn. There were five people deep behind me. I felt like I was performing on stage, attempting Tornado of Souls, with two broken strings, and, of course, naked. I sheepishly handed the prescription to the pharmacist. Conversation in this circumstance should be completely unnecessary. At least that’s what I told myself.

She looked at the piece of paper, then looked at me, before looking back at it.

“Is this for fluconazole?” she asked.

Why, did she have to say that out loud? My whole body shuttered. “Yes, it is.”

She looked me up and down. That’s right. She looked at me from head to toe.

“It’s for my toe,” I announced for the whole line to hear, as if they all knew what fluconazole was typically used for and actually gave a shit.

Crazy thoughts spun in my head. Did my doctor, my trusted medical professional, call ahead to set this up? Did he and the pharmacist discuss my retirement, and then hatch a plan to make me look like an ass in front of a group of complete strangers?

She stared back at me for a long, hard moment, not saying a word. Finally, she disappeared to fill the order. As I walked out holding my small bag of pills, the others waiting in line were scrolling their phones, appearing disinterested. I'll never know for sure, but I'm betting at least a couple of them were looking up my medication.

So, at the end of this very long day, I resolved a few things:

1. Perhaps I should be vague about the whole early retirement thing.

2. I need to look Purpose straight in the eyes.

3. Sweat socks must be washed after every single workout, without fail.