The Retirement Me

In two days I walk away from the working world, I hope for the last time. It’s goodbye Working Me and hello spotless homemaker Retirement Me.

My knickers are in a knot. My limbs are tingling, the fight-or-flight alarm is coursing through my veins. I can’t sit still or focus. I want to run (but then I remembered that is one of three things I don’t do in public. Wearing a swim suit and bowling are the other two).

Was retirement the right decision? Am I making a mistake? What if this happens? Or that? Does anyone know the cost of a portable, intravenous sedation unit on wheels?

I am giddy AND anxious. I feel nauseous. I am out of sorts. I think my family is avoiding me. I hear them but haven’t actually seen them, for several days, come to think of it…

“OK, Karen,” I say to myself, “get a hold of yourself!” Maybe someone should slap me.

It’s time to yodel for deep, cleansing breaths. And, again. That’s better.

“Get a grip, already!” I say, trying not to pass out. My shadow will ease this transition.

It was then I recalled the Martha in me, the fleeting but creative one. She made these tiny quilts, but she’s been in seclusion. It’s time to set her free. I’d better get organized first.

I made a Retirement list:

1. Buy more fabric
2. Bake bread(s)
3. Hike with the hubby
4. Walk daily
5. Buy more fabric
6. Make a dent in my book pile
7. Plan a slumber party with mom and Cheryl Ann
8. Stock the red wine shelf
9. Buy more fabric*
10. Stock the chocolate drawer/cupboard/U-haul unit
11. Clean the house

How does this look so far?

Oh, I nearly forgot. Take a look at this:

Most people call it a greenhouse. I did, too. When I asked for one, the hubby got right on it. He didn’t mess around; the supports are secured in cement. This baby is solid. Last year, he added the plastic over the arches and I began using it for what he thought I’d use it for: planting vegetable seeds.

Corrugated siding is now on the ends, he’s added the window and door frame. Says he’s making a door. He’ll get suspicious if I ask for a lock. Damn it. Better not.

Once the door is up, I can use it for my intended use: my Woman Cave.

Baking Shmaking. Hiking Shmiking. I’m no Susie Homemaker.

I need a place to eat chocolate, where I can scream, cry, cuss, throw dirt, seeds, or a fit. Maybe I want to wear sweat pants while singing the theme from Gilligan’s Island at the top of my lungs. Maybe I’ll blow bubbles, or light incense. Maybe I’ll dance to the Monkeys, or make glue fingernails.

Maybe I’ll do absolutely nothing.

I need a place for R&R, where I can be me.

Do you see it? Large planting pot= wine storage. Plug trays = Rolo storage.

When the hubby says, “Happy planting” as I head to my “greenhouse,” I smile.

Two. More. Days.

“Every little thing…is gonna be alright…”

---

* She who dies with the biggest pile wins.