in retirement there are a few things I think they should know. The
keys to not being bored or bitter or clueless about what to do with
your time are - at least in my case - a high-speed computer, hanging
around with younger people and being very picky about your lunch
companions.
I've found that not working is a lot like working - you screw up badly
at times, you piddle too much and yet you eventually get things done.
Hoping it might help those facing retirement in a few years, I kept track
of my comings and goings on an average day. I chose last January 25th,
which except for the anomaly of eating both lunch and dinner out, is
pretty typical of my life since I retired four years ago. So this is for you
Charlie, Kit, the two Lindas, Paul, Spider, Nick, the two Steves, Dianne,
John, David, Jane and others. It's all true. I have witnesses.
January 25, 2010
I got out of bed around 7:30, did my usual 20-25 minutes of exercises,
dressed and went to 7/Eleven for papers and coffee. (I had been making
coffee at home, but two days earlier I found myself putting the grounds
in the basket of Mr. Coffee before I remembered you're supposed to put
a paper filter in first.)
Breakfast was scrambled eggs and toast made by Irene. Before
scrambling eggs, Irene puts approximately 18 sticks of butter in the
pan. Why so much butter I ask? Gives it flavor, she answers. I get rid
of the butter flavor by grinding approximately 18 tablespoons of black
pepper on the eggs.
After looking at the papers, I head upstairs to the computer, surely
the invention of the Devil, where sorting through and answering e-mails,
deleting spam, checking and re-checking websites, sending new e-mails,
Googling and Binging this and that can eat up what you think is an hour
but in fact is half a day.
It's now noon, too late to start working on the travel book I have in
mind, because I have to shower and shave before heading to lunch with
John Bohannon, an anchorman I worked with at both ABC and CBS
radio.
I began the lunch by asking John about the flu he had recently and
mention I am still trying to get over an upper respiratory infection. John
says his doctor thought he might have had an upper respiratory infection
too or maybe it really was the flu. It was hard to tell.
We move on to other matters. Although John and I worked together
for several years, we never socialized until recently, and we're learning a
lot about each other. I asked him if he has a recurring dream. Yes, he
said. We then shared dreams.
In the one I have over and over, I'm trying to write a newscast, but I
can't find any stories I think are worth writing or I simply can't write
enough copy to fill the time. I am obviously heading for disaster.
John's recurring dream is similar. He has written a newscast and has
it in his hand, but he can't find the studio. There are obstacles of some
kind blocking the way to the studio. Other times he gets to the studio
on time, but the lights go out and it's impossible for him to see the copy.
After an enjoyable lunch, I do a couple of errands and spend some
money. It's then home to try to take a nap. After that I'm back on the
computer, where again I sort through and answer e-mail, delete spam,
check two or three websites, write three or four e-mails, do some
Googling and Binging of this and that and think about looking at an
essay I'm working on for the travel book.
A little after six my daughter and son-in-law, Julie and Lynn, pick us
up to drive into the city for dinner. It's Restaurant Week where many
good restaurants cut their prices. We're headed to a restaurant in lower
Manhattan, close to the Hudson River. It's a clear night and you can see
the lights in the buildings across the shore in New Jersey. Very inviting.
After I have several sips of a bourbon, the first course is served. Mine
includes two cocktail onions. I take my fork and spear one of the onions,
but the core of the onion goes flying. I feel something hit my stomach,
making me fairly confident the onion didn't end up on the clothing or
plate of anyone else at the table. All that is left of the onion on my dish
is a thin skin. I pretend nothing has happened while feeling around my
belly and looking on the floor, not too obviously I hope, for the missing
onion. After considerable fumbling while pretending to listen to what
was being said at the table, I find it. It landed in a fold of my napkin. I
pop that baby in my mouth.
The meal continues and the food is very good. (Julie knows her
restaurants. She writes about eating and cooking on her website,
www.eathappy.net.) Before dessert is decided on, I go to the men's room.
When I get to the urinal, I find there is no need to unzip my pants. They
have been unzipped all evening, an evening that included a rather
lengthy walk in front of other diners as we were led to our table. I do not
impart this factoid to my dining partners.
Coffee and four different desserts arrive, and we're all sampling each
other's food. When it's time to pay, Irene and I insist on getting the check,
using a credit card, of course. We are, after all, Americans!
Julie, our driver, takes us a different way home to Long Island, and
Irene is fascinated by the interesting stores and buildings. I chime in
from time to time on the conversation, but basically my focus is
elsewhere. I'm doing mental math, trying to figure out why the bill was
so much. We all had a Prix Fixe - $35 for three courses - and four times
$35 is easy to calculate. I have a rough idea of how much the bottle of
wine was, I guess at how much four coffees cost, yet I still can't come up
with a number anywhere close to the amount I scratched on the credit
card receipt.
Once we're home I take the receipt out of my pocket. Ah ha! I left a
very generous tip. In fact, $100 more generous than I had intended. I
call the restaurant, explain my mistake, and one of the owners comes
to the phone. The first words out of his mouth? "You left us a really big
tip." You betcha. We retirees are just rolling in money and aren't bashful
about throwing it around. The owner knows I meant to leave a $46 tip
not $146. He says he'll take care of it. To her credit, Irene didn't log on
to American Express to check every hour to see if he was a man of his
word. He was, by the way.
We now come to the most important thread of advice I have for
anyone about to retire: Do not go to lunch with boring people. If you
go out with an old friend or an acquaintance, and all they do is talk
about their problems, about people they don't like, about how all
politicians are awful and they never have an interesting story to relate,
drop them from your lunch list. The next time they ask about lunch
put on your Nancy Reagan face and just say "no." You're busy around the
house sanding window sills. Or you're going on vacation. Or your best
friend dropped dead a day ago in Lapland and you're on your way out the
door to go to her funeral. Whatever the excuse, you're going to be
unavailable for at least three months. Be tough. You're retired. You don't
have to be put up with the likes of these dull folks.
Pick lunch buddies who have good stories. I have and that's why it's a
delight to eat with John Bohannon. During our last outing, he told of a
cleaning woman who went into the main studio at CBS News, Radio
to vacuum. A technician on the other side of the glass had nothing to do
so he started a tape recorder, capturing the sounds of the vacuum. After
the lady finished her work, she unplugged the vacuum cleaner and
started to leave when the technician re-racked the tape and played the
sound of the vacuuming back into the studio. The lady looked at the plug.
It was out of the wall. The machine should be off but she could hear it
running. She began to mutter and walked out, shaking her head, very
confused.
I'm looking forward to my next lunch with John. Not only for another
terrific story, but because it's his turn to buy. That's another suggestion -
don't associate with anyone who won't pick up a lunch check.