Retirement Regrets

You know that moment when you're finally allowed to stop going to work and everyone tells you to relax, enjoy life, take up a hobby? I took all that advice. I retired like a man who’d been given an all-access pass to daytime television and mismatched slippers. First week: bliss. Second week: bliss plus a creeping sense that something was missing. Month three: I realized the humming in my house had become a person — and it was my wife.

I love my wife. I do. But when you spend twenty years leaving at eight and coming home at six, retirement makes you discover things about a person you never knew — like how much they like to narrate the placement of throw pillows, or how many ways they can say, “Did you move this?” with exactly the same tone that means you moved it.

So, I applied to work at a retail store. Preferably one with bright lights and a bell. People. Transactions. The chance to tell someone the price and then immediately stop talking to them forever. I felt alive again just thinking about folding shirts in a neat, passive-aggressive way.

They called me in for an interview. Nice place, friendly manager — young, energetic, wearing shoes that did not require a foot massage afterwards. I sat down and he asked me about my previous experience. I told him I’d shelved responsibility for thirty-five years, and then politely suggested I was ready to reshelve it.

He smiled and said, “So, can you work nights? Weekends?” And you know what came out of my mouth? “I’d love to, but my hip prefers daylight and arguments.” I instantly regretted it. You’re not supposed to start negotiating with a smile. Negotiating comes after you’ve been offered a job, not during the introductory small talk about whether you can lift 25 pounds.

Then he asked, “Are you comfortable standing for long periods?” I looked at him like he’d just shot my dog. I said, “I’m comfortable sitting, standing, and occasionally leaning — but for long periods? My chiropractor calls me “endurance challenged”. He laughed politely, the way people laugh when their brain files something under 'cute but useless information.'

He asked about my availability. I said, “Mostly mornings. I like mornings because the world still smells like potential and my neighbor hasn’t started blasting polka yet.” Honestly, I’d been up at six for years — not from discipline, but because my bladder follows a strict schedule. There’s a whole economy of trips to the bathroom I can monetize if they’d let me.

He then asked, “Do you have any hobbies?” I told him I’d taken up birdwatching — which is true — except the birds and I have an antagonistic relationship. They show up like they own the place. I once stood in the yard for twenty minutes trying to identify a cardinal, and the cardinal judged me. He flew off and I felt personally roasted by nature.

Then he said, “Any issues with alcohol?” I panicked. I mean, I enjoy a drink…or two. Who doesn’t  enjoy a little social lubrication? But I also know the look of an employer when you tell them you enjoy your gin like it’s an extracurricular activity. So, I said, “I only drink on two occasions: social events and Tuesdays.” He smiled and wrote it down under "quirky," which I’m pretty sure is code for "borderline liability."

At one point I tried to be honest about my retirement-turned-regret. I said, “I miss people. I miss that moment when someone asks you where something is and you can be like, ‘Right here,’ and feel important again.” He nodded, real sympathy in his eyes, and said, “We need someone reliable.” That word — reliable — it’s like a loaded potato. You think you can carry it, then it’s suddenly very hot and you drop it.

He asked about physical restrictions and I said, “Well, between the hip and my tendency to fall asleep in chairs designed for five-year-olds, I’m more of a 'shelf organizer' than 'heavy lifter.'” He suggested an administrative position. I pictured myself behind a counter, stamping receipts with the solemnity of a judge. The idea appealed to my love of small ceremonies.

But then, right before I signed away my freedom, my brain — which is a very practical organ that remembers every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done but forgets birthdays — kicked in. I started listing reasons I couldn’t possibly take the job. “I have weekly appointments,” I said. “I volunteer to supervise my neighbor’s wine tastings. I have a recurring commitment to watch daytime cooking shows for 'research.'” He was very kind and very patient. He said, “We can be flexible.” And I thought: Yes, they can be flexible because I haven’t actually accepted anything yet.

Finally, the truth spilled out, in a voice like stale bread. “The real problem,” I told him, “is I don’t want my wife to know I'm working. She’ll insist on packing me lunch with a note, then call three times to ask if I’m wearing my cardigan. At lunch she’ll text: 'Are you eating? Don’t drool. Remember to chew.' She thinks retirement is a forever vacation; I think it’s a very loud, very co-dependent cruise.”

He blinked. Then he smiled, like someone who finally understands which tea you prefer. He said, “Well, what would it take for you to say yes?” I thought about it. A uniform that hid my knees? A schedule that respected nap times? A contract in which my title included the word 'legendary' so I could stop apologizing for being old?

I looked at him and said, “Give me three shifts a week, all mornings, with a stool behind the register and a discreet box of mints labeled 'For Emergencies.' And don’t tell my wife.”

He laughed, and I could see the offer forming in his head — or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, it was enough. Because the truth is, retirement didn’t fail me. I failed retirement. I thought I wanted quiet. Turns out I wanted the one small, maddening, magnificent thing I’d been paid for all my life: people who don’t live in my house.

So, if you see an older gentleman at your local shop, complaining about a price tag and speaking in proverbs, that might be me. I’ll stand for a little while. I’ll sit when I need to. I’ll tell you where the light bulbs are. And if you ask me if I’ll work the weekend, I’ll answer honestly — after I consult my calendar, my chiropractor, and my bottle of gin.

*

There Is No Santa

I always thought the world was simpler than it really is. Folks told me things, and I believed them, because why wouldn’t I.  I was called slow…retarded.  At least now people say, “mentally challenged”.  When you grow up with people deciding what you should know and what you shouldn’t, you learn to take their words as truth. It’s like living in a little house with all the curtains drawn—you can hear the world outside, but you never quite see it for yourself.

Santa Claus… well, he was one of those truths. I held onto him longer than most. I liked the idea of him—this big, jolly man who knew my name, who cared if I’d been good, who brought magic to a world that didn’t always feel magical. I guess I needed him more than other folks did.

But today…  at 70 years old, I heard something different. Not mean, not said to hurt me—just said plain, like a fact everyone else already knew. “Santa isn’t real.” Just like that. And at first it felt like someone had pulled a rug out from under me. My heart dropped, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands or my thoughts.

I sat with it for a while. Let it settle. And then I realized something: maybe Santa wasn’t a real man in a red suit, but the feeling he gave me—that warmth, that hope, that excitement—those things were real. I felt them. I lived them. Nobody can take that away from me.

Maybe people kept the truth from me because they wanted to protect me. Maybe they didn’t think I could handle the world as it is. But I’m older now. I’ve lived enough to know that the world is big and complicated, and sometimes it’s kinder when you face it honestly.

So no, Santa isn’t real. But the kindness he stood for—that’s real. The joy of giving—that’s real. And the way my heart still lifts when I see Christmas lights… that’s real too.

I guess I’m not losing something today. I’m just seeing it differently. And maybe that’s alright. Maybe that’s what growing up feels like, even when you’re growing up a little later than everyone else.