The trouble with retirement
(Spoiler alert/warning: This essay contains no data, no references, no numbers or official documentation of any kind. It merely contains my own experience and observations. In no way does it represent any experience other than my own.)
Over the past several weeks, I have watched with detached bemusement at the French protest the proposed increase in retirement age from 62 to 64. Their President, Emanuel Macron, and his cronies have determined that the raise will safeguard the country’s pension structure. I have not done a deep dive into the math of this proposal, but I am not terribly surprised by it. We have widespread pension issues of our own here in the US, of varying causes, partly because of the economy, and interest rates, and partly because of the population demographics. What surprises me more is the idea that retiring at 62 was ever a good idea.
Right now, retirement is a subject near and dear to my heart.
I personally retired at 62, or rather just short of my 62nd birthday. And I did so not because I was ready to quit working, but because I moved to be with my partner, and my skills and career proved to be not terribly portable (potable?) to the area and circumstances and time in which I relocated. (I left my job 6 weeks before Covid started.) Which in itself is a long and complicated and not terribly interesting story, but suffice it to say, I was ready to give up my job, but I wasn’t ready to quit working. And I did not have a pension. I will tell the story regardless.
The job had worn me out, both physically and emotionally. For six months after my so-called retirement at the end of January, 2020, I slept 12 hours a night, trying to recover. But instead of recovering, I had a series of accidents that resulted in a broken arm, a frozen shoulder, a chronic knee injury, and aggravated other issues (bad feet from wearing clogs for 35 years). And then, beginning in July, we welcomed three new grandchildren in three different states. So we were busy. I had moved from Chicago to Michigan with a four month layover in Florida. My partner sold his home of 25 years. There was a lot of packing, unpacking, repacking, storing, donating, and driving. And cooking. I was decorating our new home remotely, which was not without difficulties. The logistical challenges of pulling from his and my existing furnishings in our previous homes (a vintage condo and a sprawling suburban home), plus purchasing the missing pieces for our new Birmingham MI 4-story townhome during Covid while being unable to see anything in person was almost laughably complex. During our actual move-in, my daughter went into labor, a full month ahead of her due date. In North Carolina.
So that was my first year of retirement.
Despite the busyness, I knew I had to do something. Earn a living. Do something. So I decided to become an interior designer. If I could handle this level of complexity for myself, I could handle anything for anybody.
My real interest, though, is in art collecting, which I’ve been doing and studying for decades. I attended the School of the Art Institute of Chicago when I studied creative writing, and if I learned a particular skill, it was editing. And good design is really about the edit. I am definitely a less is more person, transitional more than traditional or MCM, and a number of friends in the design business have encouraged me over the years. I love art. And ceramics. And textiles. And antiques. I love finding and displaying interesting things that don’t cost a fortune. I love a bargain! I love the mix of old and new. I love style that stands the test of time. So I thought, why not?
Here’s why not. It’s the same reason I am not selling the two books I’ve written. It’s the same reason I couldn’t sell nylons at Neiman Marcus when I worked there during college. Because I can’t sell anything. And in particular, I cannot sell myself.
I can sell people on ideas. On concepts. On the reasons we should give money to certain causes, get into therapy, promote technology initiatives for the IDD community, or why you should have a shingles vaccine or take your statin. But if it’s about me, forget it.
I don’t know how to build a business that is just me doing something I love. I have no idea how to take the leap outside my own home and encourage someone to take a chance on hiring me. In the meantime, I’ve taught myself Sketchup. Which is no small feat. Now if I could just figure out this f**ing website.