Reflections of a (Retired) 70-Something

Today I reached a milestone I can barely pronounce- septuagenarian. I am now officially 70-something, with fewer years ahead than already lived. I love the way my new identify sounds like an exotic pet or constellation. To celebrate I had my toenails painted purple, bought my first ever chocolate-colored bra, indulged in a birthday cake pop at Starbucks, and best of all, cradled my eight-week-old grandbaby Nellie Sage, lavishing in her gurgles and coos.

It is a privilege to grow old- not everybody gets the chance. Both my parents died at the age of 62, months before my third child was born. I never set eyes on either of my grandmothers, even though I am the namesake for one of them. My mom would tell the story of how my German grandmother lifted my squirmy newborn self into her arms for a snuggle three feet above my mom’ s bed. Impossible to verify but made for good family lore. As for my grandfathers, my only memories are of the shiny black loafers I would accidentally stomp on when learning to walk, forcing my mom to scoop me up before I caused any more sore toes.

Tragically, a few friends passed far too early; my dear friend Gale died of lung cancer just days before her 60th birthday.

 My 70th coincided with another major life transition: retirement.

Over my working life, I held myriad jobs- some that kept me afloat, and others that were more vocation than job. Among these were ( in no chronological order) cocktail waitress, server in Chinese restaurant, grant writer, political reporter in Chicago (when newspapers still existed), gold digger at Sears ( chiseling customer teeth to pay out  gold fillings), administrative assistant at a French import company in the World Trade Center, community organizer, marketer at a community college, church secretary ( for both Methodist and Lutheran ministers), Trademark researcher,  librarian, inspector at a  bottle  factory, fille au pair in Paris, freelance writer,  and communication director for a nonprofit. In my final job before retirement-as a grant writer for a health care system- I found funding for homeless adults struggling with HIV, children with autism, teens recovering from drug addiction and other people on society’s edge. Meaningful work- even with the drumbeat of deadlines playing in my head on weekends.

As the theologian Frederick Buechner observed, “Vocation is the place where the world’s greatest need and a person’s greatest joy meet.” I was blessed to have lived in this intersection for many years. Indeed, I am also lucky to have both a pension (thanks to my ex-husband and good divorce lawyer) and some savings at a time when forty percent of American retirees count Social Security as their only source of income. Small wonder that so many have to choose between medication and utility bills.

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Few people in the industrialized world work longer than Americans. To paraphrase the French philosopher Descartes, “I work, therefore I am.”   

 According to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), Americans work an average of 1,800 hours a year, more than workers in Germany, Japan, France, and the United Kingdom. Yet in terms of work/life balance, the US ranks 30th of 38 countries. We have no national paid leave policy, leaving time off for new babies or taking care of sick loved ones to the whims of individual corporations. Forty years ago, my employer was way ahead of the progressive curve when I was granted three months’ paid maternity leave.

I suspect this appetite for work comes from our puritanical roots and pressure to compete-- for higher wages, status, and consumer goods we neither need nor can afford. Early in my career, I was a proofreader for a health care information company that sponsored an office scavenger hunt, with a weekend getaway to a Caribbean Island as a prize. The competition was so intense that a few overzealous staff members unplugged printers to trip up colleagues. Not long after this episode, I quit.

 With so much waking life spent in the workplace, retirement can signal the beginning of the end. In fact, the word comes from the French “retirer,” meaning to draw back.

 Yet a new, more positive culture is being shaped, albeit slowly. In 1973, a French university launched an international movement to provide lifelong learning for older people and retirees. These are members of the “Third Age, “those between middle and old age who remain curious about the world. Although Third Age courses are widespread across Europe, the concept has yet to catch fire in the US. I hope this changes.

Other cultures have much to teach us about aging. The word for retirement in Spanish is "jubilación,” a term that invites us to joyfully live out our passions. I understand this intellectually but accepting it with my entire being is a tough sell. I reason, “My hard work is done. I raised three children as a single mom, rebuilt my career as a writer, and eventually bought my own home.”  I earned this. So why do still I feel it is decadent to take an afternoon nap?

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 On a trip to Ireland last spring, I toured the country’s Wild Atlantic Coast where jagged cliffs and islands draped in fog beguiled and stirred something in me. I realized that I yearned for something deeper. Something I cannot yet define but it is there all the same. Mystery perhaps. All that has been elusive in my life - until now.

In The Gift of Years, Growing Older Gracefully (note this is older, not old), human rights advocate, and spiritual writer Joan Chittister offers wisdom on aging. “The task of this period of life,” she counsels, “is not simply to endure the end of time. It is to come alive in ways we have never been alive before.”

Yesterday I paused on my back porch for several seconds to watch a goldfinch feast on the seeds of a faded pink coneflower.

I will get there.