Doing the "Walk"

Birdie, our Border Collie Corgi mix, and I, have been on a roll lately with our daily walks.  In the past week, since retiring, I have determined that I cannot spend my retirement lounging in my recliner.  Though comforting, my mid-section is rebelling and making a move to be the predominant feature of my physique.  It is prepping me to be a department store Santa come Christmas and I won’t need a pillow to round out the costume.  With some hesitation and reluctance, some optimism, and a whole lot of prompting from the dog and wife . . . we transitioned to walking . . . lots of walking.  I figured out if I was going to walk I should go all in . . . both feet, literally.

It's not like walking hasn’t been a part of my life’s regime.  Until my wife retired a year ahead of me, it was my task to walk the dogs.  Four to five evenings–weather permitting, I walked the dogs.  Yep, that’s right–dogs, Birdie and Quinn (a tiny miniature Dachshund).  Such a combination is an adventure.  Quinn’s idea of a walk is from any room into the kitchen.  But she put up with it because she wanted to be where her sister was.  It was half walk, half drag . . . constant encouragement . . . and at times, pick up and carry.  At all times being stared down with a look of “what the hell!”  The point is that I walked the dogs.

Once my wife retired she finagled walking the dogs from me.  She convinced me to relax and rest after a hard day at work.  She’d walk the dogs, besides she needed exercise.  Who was I to argue? For over a year she became the primary dog walker.  The dogs didn’t complain . . . especially Quinn who recognized a downgrade when she saw one.  Less distance, less effort, and less time from napping.  It worked well . . . 

. . . until I retired.

Walking the dog duties have been split since I have retired.  Birdie walks with me.  Quinn protests with the wife as they attempt to walk.  Birdie gets longer and more vigorous walks with me.  Quinn, when she is not protesting, gets shorter and more pedestrian walks.  Birdie loves walks.  Quinn, at best, tolerates walks.  Remember she is a miniature Dachshund.  That means everything has to be just “right” for a walk.  There can be no wind.  No moisture of any type–no snow, no rain.  No weather.  It has to be perfect.  If forced to walk when she doesn’t want to, there are two results . . . she plops her butt down, spreads her front legs and dares to be pulled to walk.  We live on a dirt road and proof of resistance is well documented in the trial she leaves down the road.  This typically leads to the second result . . . she gets picked up and carried.  Which she enjoys and loves.  Either way the wife gets more exercise than she bargained for.  The bottom line is that the dogs get walked in some shape or form.

As I stated earlier, Birdie and I have been on a roll since starting.  We have walked all over the community and so far have not repeated a single route.  That is the nice thing about living in a small rural community in Montana . . . there are lots of places to go strolling.  Lots of variety in the landscape.  Lots of doggie and wildlife scents . . . lots of pee mail.  Birdie is on scent overload and I am combatting elderly tummy spread.  We are both happy.

At the same time, I worry.  I worry that I might kill my pup.  I stand at 5’10” in height.  Birdie stands 15 inches at her shoulders.  She is a small dog–that is her Corgi side.  My strides are much longer than hers.  Like every exercise optimist I use a Fitbit to monitor my physical activity.  It tells me how many steps I walk each day.  On our daily walks, Birdie and I are averaging 7,500 steps.  Well, that is what I average.  I imagine that Birdie averages two to three times more steps since she is so short.  In my estimation–in doggie steps, she is walking between 15,000 and 22,500 steps.  For the two of us that equates to about 3.7 miles.  We’ve been cooking it and we both sleep well at night.

Still, I worry.

Luckily her breeding makes her smart.  Probably smarter than me.  She does know her limits and is not afraid to let me know.  She either intensifies the pee mail reading, constantly stopping, and attempting to get every word of what she is sniffing.  Or she slows down to a crawl or Quinn pace/  Thus far our walks have not been a problem for her.  It’s tough to wipe the smile off her face at the end of our walks.

I’m not sure if Birdie and I will continue at our torrid pace.  The competitor in me says that we are just beginning.  That we are setting the baseline for walks . . . that the sky is the limit.  There is much of our area we have not explored . . . adventures not taken.  We have many walks ahead of us.  It is important.  Each afternoon, Birdie comes and sits at my feet and stares . . . watching for that moment, that moment that I move towards the door and utter those two words, “Let’s go!” It makes her day.  Together we are happy and filled with joy.  At this rate I won’t be playing Santa at Christmas.

 

The Countdown

Again, I begin the countdown to retirement.  This time it is for real.  My contract as interim director at the university ends on December 31^st.  As that date approaches, I have been doing all the necessary paperwork . . . HR forms, Social Security, state retirement paperwork, and lining up my Part B for Medicare.  I have been doing all the healthcare stuff before my university insurance expires . . . dentist, optometrist, medical doctor that resulted in a colonoscopy.  Retiring is no simple task . . . too much paperwork, hoop-jumping, and running around.  You would think that once you said you were “done” that that would be it.  Hand you a gold watch and push you out the door. 

This time I am ready for retirement.  The hardest part of retirement (besides all the hoop-jumping) is having to deal with the bombardment of questions about my plans once I am retired.  Seems like everyone wants to know . . . after the congratulations comes the barrage of inquiries of what I am going to do once I am out to pasture.

 

I have a friend who retired from the ministry several years ago.  He was meticulous in planning his retirement.  He did it for years.  He wanted to be prepared.  One of the things that he talked about in planning his retirement was the “seasons of life”.  Like many, he saw life as four seasons . . . spring, summer, autumn, and winter.  He viewed retirement as the doorway into the final season of life . . . winter.  He wanted to be ready for his last hooray.

 

Spring is the first season of life.  Spring represents new beginnings, youth, and renewal.  Summer is the peak of life, filled with passion and growth.  Autumn reflects change, maturity, and harvest.  Winter brings rest, reflection, and endings.  In this pattern of life, one moves through each season until the journey is complete.  I guess in a sense I can see this, though I can also see that there are no distinct and definitive boundaries between the seasons.  I believe there is a blurring between the seasons where they mix and mingle.

 

I can attest that I can see these seasons in my life adventure.  I’ve experienced each of these seasons as I prepare to enter my “final season”.  Yet, at the same time, there are bits and pieces of the seasons showing up unseasonably throughout.  Spring may represent the start of my life journey with all that it represents, but through all of the seasons I have had new beginnings . . . new starts.  Isn’t that what I’m doing as I enter the season of winter?  Starting over, yet again?

 

Even as I enter the season of winter, the passion found in summer is lurking around.  Now I will be able to jump in with both feet and broadly explore those “passions” I never had enough time to do during the other seasons of my life.  Winter may represent the “end”, but there is still plenty of growth yet to come.

 

Autumn . . . change, maturity, and harvest.  The transition between seasons is “change”.  Maturity . . . no one ever said I was mature.  Quite the opposite.  I imagine it probably should be something I strive for before it is all over.  The harvest has been and will continue to be bountiful.  Life is not stagnated and neither should one’s embracing it. 

The final season—winter.  A time for rest.  Finally, I will have time to actually rest.  Naps abound!  Reflection is a toll for all seasons. If not, I doubt I would be here now.  Winter would have come a lot sooner.  It is true that there will be endings, but endings can be new beginnings.

The four seasons is a nice model, but I have looked as life that way.

Someone else said that the four seasons of life are: single, married, children, and empty nest.  I guess this model is a little more practical.  Though an acceptable model, not everyone follows this model.  Now everyone will get married.  Not everyone will have children.  Even though it is not perfect for everyone, I cam jam my life into this seasonal description, yes, I was single . . . it was an adventure . . . it was fun.  Marriage kind of threw a wrench into it. Yup, I got married and I am still married.  For some marriage is a good argument for staying single.  I can’t complain.  Marriage has been good.  I’ve got children—still do and it has been amplified with grandchildren.  Tumultuous at times, but they have and continue to be worth it.  Empty nest is a fallacy . . .once you have children, you always have children.  They never really leave even though they leave the house.  They are always my children, and they need me less and less, but they still need me.  We are connected. 

This model explains things on paper and in theory, but it is not a neat and clean model for me.

Of course, none of these answers the question about what I plan on doing when I retire.  Inquiring minds want to know.  People are curious.  My wife wants to know . . . I think she believes I am going to be a stick in the mud messing up her retirement routine that she has had for over a year.  She shouldn’t worry.  She’s an extrovert.  I’m an introvert.  Her routine involves too much going with too many people.  That is not me.  I don’t need lots of people.  I have my dogs and I am happy.

The children want to know.  I think they are scared that I am going to camp out on their front porches or down in the basements.  It could happen because they hold the keys to the grandchildren.  But it won’t.  They need to go through whatever seasons of life are a part of their journeys.  They have no need to build a grandparent’s suite to their houses.  When the opportunities arise, I will be there loving and supporting them.

For everyone else, asking the question is a curtesy.  Most people are just being nice and really don’t care what I am going to be doing once I retire.  They really don’t care.  And that is okay.  As I said, I am an introvert.  I don’t need a lot of people in my life.  At the same time, there are those who ask because they are fearful that I am going to disappear.  They think that I have too much to offer to retire.  Again, I appreciate the trust and belief they have in me, but someone always steps in to fill the shoes.  If I kept doing what I am doing I wouldn’t be retiring—right?

So . . . what am I going to do when I retire?

Time will tell.  I will read.  I have lots of books stacked up on my nightstand and throughout the house.  I will write.  I like to write and now I will have more time to write.  I will walk . . . especially my dogs.  Working at a desk has made my presence bigger and waling will slim that presence down.  I will photograph . . . I love to play with my cameras.  Now I will have more time to do so . . . especially critter creeping.  I will finally get around to emptying the basement and garage of all those boxes of stuff that have been hanging around for 17 years!  I will make trips with my wife especially to see the kids and grandchildren.  I will explore the area I live in and the rest of Montana . . . my list is long.  I will sit on the deck and enjoy the small chunk of paradise I call home.  I will continue to put mini-stories and profane thoughts on social media.  I will surely be approached with a “honey do” list that will have to be done.  And I will take each day as it comes.  That should be enough adventure as this is Montana . . . the sky is the limit.  Montana is the “big sky” state.

As the countdown ebbs towards that final day, I am not worried about what I will do once I am retired.  It will be what it is and if it is anything like what precluded it . . . well, it will be an adventure!  It won’t be the end . . . the journey can continue and you can find me on the deck watching the sun set, enjoying a cool beverage, and being thankful that I actually made it.

 

In Spite of Myself . . . I’m Okay

At some point I must have passed some imaginary line which precipitated a change in my appearance and the way that others perceive me.  I’m not sure when it happened.  There were no flashing lights.  No blaring horns.  No ringing bells.  Confetti did not fall from the sky.  There wasn’t even a band.  People just treat me differently.  It wasn’t a religious thing . . . a dark night of the soul gig . . . no wandering around in the wilderness . . . no heavenly choir or descending dove.  It was not an epiphany of some sort.

Apparently, it just happened.  I’ve been baffled ever since.

 

I noticed it last week while the wife and I were up north visiting our grandchildren and their parents.  My children were treating me differently.  Showing concern.  Dropping subtle hints.  There was an air of empathy.  The first time it happened was when I attempted to stand up from the couch.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  I must have groaned as I stood.  I was asked, “Are you okay?”  Well, yeah!  Considering that all the furniture that my children have equipped their homes with is that modern stuff that sits low to the ground.  Whenever I sit on one of their couches my caboose is lower to the ground than my knees.  The human body was not designed to be dragging butt.  It is not easy getting up and out of those couches.  It takes some finagling . . . some superhuman effort, and yes, a little groaning.

 

Yes, I am fine!

 

Over the several days I was up north I got asked that question numerous times each day.  “Are you okay?”  For the most part I let it roll off my shoulders.  Ignored it.  After a while . . . well, it started to irritate me.  Grind on me.  While the wife and I were in the backyard of one of our children’s homes playing with the dogs . . . I snapped.  Tripping over a clump of grass my wife asked, “Are you okay?”  Something inside of me snapped and exploded releasing an avalanche of words: “Dammit!  Yes, I’m okay.  If I get asked that one more time, I’m going to scream!”

 

Oops!  I guess I blew that.  But enough was enough.  The wife placed the stick on the camel’s back that broke it.

 

Since them I have been wondering when I crossed over that imaginary line of decrepitude.  I just don’t remember crossing it.  Seems everyone else has recognized it.  I missed the memo.  I guess everyone has decided to let me know.  So, I ponder . . . what the hell is going on?

 

Okay, I will admit that for some reaching the age I have reached is grounds for having crossed that imaginary line of discrepancy.  Yes, I have aged.  We all do.  I can accept that and all that comes with it.  It’s all there . . . greying hair (of what hair is left), failing eyesight, a Dunlop over the belt, slower reaction time, selective hearing loss, achy bones, sore joints, drooping butt.  Yes, it is all there.  And, if I allow myself to see it there can be no denying it is there.  Yet when I look in the mirror the inner me doesn’t see the aging old fart.  Nope!  I still see Brad Pitt.  Maybe delusion is a part of aging.  But even Brad Pitt is aging.  Despite it all . . . I’m okay!

 

Maybe it is the word “retirement”.  I guess people see that as a sort of “being put out to pasture before heading off to that heavenly meat packing plant”.  A person hits retirement and people treat you differently.  They call you “sir”.  When opening a door you are told, “Let me get that for you, old fellow.”  You get senior discounts and restaurants give you “senior portions”.  You’re encouraged to play pickle ball.  Gifts of books are in large print.  People remind you that Lawrence Welk is on PBS every Saturday evening.  You get spoken to louder because everyone knows that once you hit 40 you’re hard of hearing.

 

“Retirement” is not a death sentence . . . not even a conviction of “old age”.  It is just a cairn marking a place on the journey of life.  And, yes, I’m okay!

 

I am okay.  There is no need to have an ambulance on speed dial.  There is no need to have a hotline to the doctor.  My AARP membership is good for another five years.  I have not been put on the endangered species list.  My orthopedic shoes are in a box, on a shelf, in the closet.  I don’t need hearing aids—at my age if it is worth listening to, I hear it.  I can still tie my own shoes, button my shirts, and wipe my butt.  I mow my yard. I shovel the snow.  I can have coherent conversations.  I can play with my grandchildren.  I tease with the best of them.  And I eventually even remember why I came into a room.  Sure, I moan and groan once in a while, but my pains let me know that I am still alive.

 

Despite my inner self lagging several decades behind my outer reality. I’m still here.  It is okay if the world can’t see Brad Pitt when they see me.  People don’t see me when they look at Brad Pitt.  It is their loss, not mine.  I am not delusional.  I’m way past the mid-life crisis point in my life . . . at least I hope I am because I cannot imagine living life at 132 years old.  I still have the love and affection for my wife that I first had when we fell in love.  I love my children, though they wear me out with the constant “Are you okay?”  My grandchildren are the best and I can throw frisbee all day for my dogs.  And none of the food I eat has been put through the blender.  I still have my own teeth.  I’m still here!  I’m okay!

 

If there was some imaginary line, I crossed over that warranted a change in how people see and treat me . . . well, I missed it.  I apologize to those of you that are offended that I’m living up to some unseen expectations.  It just ain’t going to happen.  You get what you get.  I am who I am.  Better or worse (ask the wife).  That is all there is.

 

Maybe John Prine said it best in his song, In Spite of Ourselves:

 

In spite of ourselves

We’ll end up sittin’ on a rainbow

Against all odds

Honey, were the big door prize

 

Yup, I’ve come to accept myself for who I am, where I am, and who I will always be.  I’m the big door prize no matter what anyone else thinks.

 

I’m okay!