Part 2: Navigating the Expectations of Others

Created by Night Cafe

I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.

~ Inspector Bryant, Blade Runner

Soon after retiring, I got a call from a work friend, Tony. He suggested catching up over lunch. If you read the first edition of this series, The Early Days, you’d understand there were ample gaps in my schedule to fit that in.

The lunch invitation came with an agenda: he wanted to tell me about a job opportunity that had just popped up. Though I had stated my unwavering intention to stay retired, he was persistent. “What’s it going to hurt to hear the full story?” he said.

***

Tony was waiting at the restaurant when I arrived. A look of shock washed over his face, before being skillfully suppressed. I assumed this was due to my ultra casual attire and my excessively long hair and beard; excessive for me, that is.

He shook my hand, placing his other one over mine as if expressing condolences at a funeral. “How are you doing, pal?” he said, somberly.

“Doing pretty good, Tony. How about yourself?”

“Me? I’m great.” But you’ve totally phoned in, dude.

He asked what I’d been up to, and I told him. I didn’t hold back…not one bit. As I laid out a typical day, he winced a couple of times, as if being jabbed with a hot poker. And when I finished, he gripped the table with both hands, letting out a long sigh; he looked despondent. It’s my life, but I felt compelled to provide some comforting words.

“I’m just taking some time to figure out the next step. I know it doesn’t sound very exciting, but I’m happy.”

“Really? So, you don’t regret leaving? You don’t you miss it?”

“No, I don’t.”

Now he seemed angry. “So, what…you’re just going to do this shit for the next thirty years?”

“If I’m lucky. Why is that so bad?”

“Well, you look like Jerry Garcia, the final years. You’re dressed like you’re going to a Jimmy Buffet concert. And you have the daily routine of someone twenty years older, except without their sense of purpose. Your existence is…how shall I say it…sad…pathetic…”

As he struggled to find another similar adjective, I raised my hand up. “Yeah, I get the point. It’s not for everyone.”

His reaction was somewhat baffling. Why was my life so distressing to him? Did he think there was some shadowy organization, the productivity police, poised to swoop in and arrest me, and anyone associated with me, for not fulfilling the required quotient of meaningful activities? Or did he believe that by breaking conventional career norms, I would shatter the matrix, revealing our true existence, a horrific, post-apocalyptic nightmare, being trapped in a pod with our brains linked to a supercomputer? But I digress.

Finally, he said, “We’ve got to get you back in the game, pal.” Now, there was desperation in his voice.

“Get back into what game, Tony?”

“The game the rest of us are playing. You need to get a haircut and a shave, and trade in those shorts and flip flops for a suit. You need to get back to doing what you’re good at.” No, I wasn’t a Blade Runner hunting replicants; I was an accountant. “You can’t retire now. These are your prime career years, for Christ sakes.”

Then it dawned on me. Tony’s a good guy, an empathetic guy. But this wasn’t about me at all. For him, like many Americans, work defines who he is. So, he probably assumed, based on my appearance and my sorry little daily routine, that I was experiencing the mother of all existential crises; that without a job and a title, I was flailing about in a void, untethered to civilization, wondering if I even existed. Well, maybe that’s overstating it a bit.

The truth was: I’d never been happier, and I didn’t – not for a single second – regret my decision. Yes, I retired relatively young, and I still felt like I had some gas left in the tank. Having worked for many years in a field that never felt quite right, I needed to leave. For me, it was never a choice.

Having figured out Tony’s angst, I knew there was only one way to assuage his fears. So, when he brought up the job opening, I agreed to send him my resume, thanking him profusely for thinking of me. After that, it was as if two anvils had been hoisted from his shoulders. We were able to have a very pleasant lunch, even sharing a couple of laughs.

Thankfully, that company never requested an interview. Saved me from being in the uncomfortable position of having to decline the invitation, which probably would have caused some problems between me and Tony. In time, he moved through the five stages of grief regarding my new life, ultimately landing on acceptance.

Post-retirement Lesson Learned: I only have one this time: as well-meaning as others might be, you can’t live your life based on their fears and expectations; that’s the death knell of dreams. Took a while for me to figure that out.

In the next installment, I talk about some of the pitfalls that came a long with this change in lifestyle and the search for purpose.