:“Doing nothing might be the best thing you never thought you’d do,” says happy retiree Shelley Fralic
“You’re retiring? Why? Won’t you be bored?”
The questions, usually uttered in one breathless sentence, along with a look of confused disbelief, are delivered in a high-pitched, incredulous tone, as if in divulging your intention you have somehow caused offence, akin to defecting from the ranks after decades of faithful membership in an exclusive club.
The reaction is especially so if you are not yet 65, the age at which the average baby boomer was predestined to willingly hand over the keys to the kingdom to the next generation and head out in the Airstream, compartments stuffed with defined benefit pension cheques.
I retired at 63. I had never planned to work beyond 65 and when, after 41 years in the newspaper business, a generous buyout offer came up, I took the money and ran. Loved my job, but I was done.
There was shock and awe in my small orbit. What was I thinking? Giving up a great career, good money, pensionable years, extended benefits. Surely I was mad. And, good lord, what would I do with myself all day long?
The answer to that last question was easy:
Nothing.
Make no mistake: There is pressure upon retirement to do otherwise. One must have a purpose. There shall be no wasting of the day, no lollygagging in the remaining years. After all, we are the pigs in the python, that unholy hump of slowly digesting populous on modern history’s timeline, the Midas-touched generation for whom all things were golden. Jobs, housing, pensions, health — our wealth has been measured, like none before us, by the twin gods of longevity and economic ease. The covenant? Thou must not squander one single second of our good fortune.
And so, in order to fulfil our anthropological destiny, many of us continue to work past 65, perhaps still loving the work, perhaps needing the money, perhaps believing we are defined by a paycheque. Others retire but travel relentlessly, haunted by that silly bucket list. We journey to Machu Picchu and Iceland and Slovenia, coasting waterways on kitted-out barges, riding tough terrain on flimsy bicycles, and wearing unflattering fast-wicking Lycra and goofy toques, all the while testing the limits of our savings and knees ravaged by years of jogging.
And then there are those of us who retire and do nothing. Who gladly and boldly embrace idleness.
If I needed inspiration for loafing, it came from a now-gone cherished friend, who retired from a celebrated radio career and immediately transitioned to his lanai in Hawaii, beer in hand and hibernation in his heart. Dare ask him how he was going to pass the time and he would scoff at the absurdity of the query: “What do you mean, what am I going to do? I am going to do nothing.”
And so, four years on, the art of my idleness is near fully perfected, and so delicious a state of being that to wake at dawn, with another weightless day ahead, is an endorphin rush like no other.
Oh, there is the morning routine of coffee and newspapers at the local café. The visits with Mom, who is 93 and still doing daily floor exercises. There are pies to bake, documentaries to watch, beaches to stroll, books to finish, family to spoil, sales to shop.
And really, wasn’t that the point of retiring? You work for 50 years, get the kids through piano lessons and acne, transfer your caretaking obligations to elderly parents and — if you are especially blessed — continue to nurture the astonishing love you have for your grandchildren.
Because when the day comes that your body is suddenly slow and what once mattered to you — like what people think or say — really doesn’t matter anymore, you realize that it’s time to do what you want to do, not what is expected of you.
So here’s to the bone idle life. It will surprise you how little guilt you feel, how easy it is to dismiss the non-believers. Because doing nothing might be the best thing you never thought you’d do.
— Shelley Fralic writes the Life in the 60s column
