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First month of retirement passes in cloud of dust
My first month of retirement sneaked past me like an expiration date on a cottage-cheese carton.
When I was employed, it was easy to chart work progress by assignments completed, deadlines met and weekly paychecks. But now I can’t cross off stuff like laundry from daily “to do” lists because it grows like kudzu. I keep noticing things I’ve never washed before, such as nasty mildew-mottled life jackets that would make you want to drown before wearing.
This time of domestic toil has transformed me into “Molly Housewife,” according to my daughter-in-law, although I think she probably meant to say “Suzy Homemaker.”
She told me this after a several-day interval in which I didn’t wear shoes, a watch or makeup, venturing only from the house to collect the newspaper.
Instead, I scrubbed shower stalls, sinks and even the tops of doors, which I’d never viewed as cleaning targets until I did the proverbial “white glove” test and raised dust bunnies that were more like mad hares.
On the other hand, I didn’t spend any money or swap a scrap of gossip during that period of what my husband, Fred, calls “putter projects.”
Plus I shed the 3 pounds I’d put on over the holidays, perhaps because I was less sedentary than when I had a job-site desk.
Actually, the weight drop may have occurred because I’ve been reacquainting myself with items I’d previously considered esoteric, such as sauce pans. In the course of cooking, I tried out some of Fred’s family recipes but struggled to read his handwriting.
The instructions for making his birthday-cake frosting, for example, called for the ingredients to be stirred together “until sluggish,” but he hadn’t elaborated on whether sluggish referred to the batter or the beater.
We marked his birthday by what turned out to be a slumber party, since our dinner guests slept over — a reassuring event for me since I’d worried about going into social shutdown after my work-force exit.
My former job site was a high-energy environment in which even a trip to the water cooler could spark intellectual conversation. But for a good while, I’d been getting subtle age-related cues that my performance may have peaked, and it would better to leave than to linger and become a liability.
The not-to-be-ignored signs included a sports column about the 70-something football coach at my beloved college who should have bowed out a winner (but hasn’t) and the fact that the man who stocked the beverage machine at the office placed the Tab cola logo backwards in the selection slot. When I forgot (for the first time ever) to wear my admission badge (on my very last day of work), it was a clarion message that my career was over.
I’d fretted about leaving that cerebral-tsunami work site until a few days into retirement when I discovered some profound matters to ponder at home. When I cleaned out the small-appliance cabinet, for instance, it made me ruminate on the unfortunate associations one might make with a Fry Baby machine. In the junk drawer, I found a stud finder and mused about some juicier implications for the term.
The next month of retirement may be just as exciting, since Fred plans to be off-the-job, too. Also, we can busy ourselves for a grandchild’s expected midspring arrival.
When we went to the Baby-o-Rama store with our son and daughter-in-law, it was a little disconcerting to see all the apparently de rigueur baby gear that’s out there. But the most daunting part was in the complimentary Grandparent Preparation Guide’s chapter on baby-proofing the home.
Fred and I can handle the outlet plugs, stove-knob guards and stair safety gates. But I’m not too sure about the toilet locks — devices that hint of imposing a real hardship on our aging bladders. I’m thinking they’re probably what prompted Erma Bombeck to say that by the time her first grandchild arrived, both the baby and the elder Bombecks were in diapers.
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