A Retiring American Dream

Retirement at sixty-five is ridiculous. When I was sixty-five I still had pimples. George Burns                                                                                    

 If you’re old enough to remember Georgie you’re probably old enough to retire. A foundation of my blog, a mission statement if you will, is to tackle the American Dream; including mine.  I suppose I’m doing it backwards in discussing the last chapter of the American Dream.  Maybe it makes the most sense to start here since I’m at the stage of life when retirement should be gaining clarity. Or maybe it isn’t.

Lately I’ve been ruminating on retirement.  It’s one of those American Dream scenes in which you’ve put in your time and then you relax and enjoy life, or you do something you really want to do instead of have to do; you travel, spoil the grandkids while pissing off their parents, play golf if that’s your thing, do volunteer work, work for a dear to your heart cause or just sit on the front porch, drink beer, crush the cans, watch the world and be lovably crusty like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino (less the gang bangers and gun play).

There was a time, not too long ago when I gave retirement only a passing consideration.  Thought I would get bored and drive my wife nuts at which point she would be pushing me to get a job of some sort leading me to becoming a greeter at Wal-Mart; “Here’s your *&%$# cart, have a %$@^% day”  I don’t suppose that would work.  Or maybe I would be one of those seniors working at McDonalds; “What the hell kind of parent are you bringing your already overweight kid in here and buying him a Big Mac. Get the hell outta here and feed him an apple.”  Talk about back to the future; you begin your work career at a fat vat and end it there.  So no, I hadn’t figured on retiring.  Just sit at my desk until I did a face plant right into my keyboard. Finis.

That’s changed and more or less suddenly.  Like a marathoner at mile 21 I’ve hit the working wall.  At 57 I’m not so much tired of work itself.  I enjoy my work and find it stimulating and challenging.  I interact with interesting people all over the United States, Italy and China and I enjoy dealing with them all.  What I’m tired of is the workplace.  I’m worn down and wrung out by office politics, the meanness, the constant ASAPness that every task big, small or insignificant requires, even if it really can wait but can’t because somewhere up the chain some self-important boob decided that his need is greater than all others.  And I’m tired of the penchant that corporate America has developed for squeezing every last drop of blood, sweat, tears and energy from the workforce because, “You know what; if you don’t like it, there’s a big potential workforce out there looking for work and I can always find someone to get it done.”  The middle class worker is stuck in neutral, getting a pittance for a raise if there even is one and he’s sucking it up and working scared because the boss is right; there is a big field of potential replacements out there.  Meanwhile much of corporate America and the upper class are doing quite well thank you.  I mentioned back to the future awhile back and here’s another version of it.  We’ve gone back to the days of robber barons who view their workers with utter contempt.  And so there’s going to come a time when I’m going to skip out of the office on that final day singing Bob Dylan’s words, “I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Farm no more.”

Over the years, my wife and I have mulled over where to retire.  I’ve always longed for small town America, maybe in the foothills of the Sierra.  I guess I saw myself learning fly fishing, planting myself in some scene from “A River Runs Through It.”  My wife has steadfastly resisted rural retiring and I know there’s no changing her mind.  I thought I could dig in my heels and convince her by threatening to make the move on my own but she’s called my bluff; “Fine, go. Move up there.”  She’s even upped the ante with, “Find yourself a young woman to live with.”  Talk about sweetening the pot.  I don’t know, I’ve forgotten how to find a young woman and even if I did I would be like the dog that chases cars and finally catches one;  “well now that I’ve caught this thing one in hell do I do with it.”  I’ve considered the Reno area where housing and the standard of living are much more affordable.  Don’t know how my wife would view that one; dimly I think.  I’ve mulled over the Napa Valley but I don’t think we have the financial horsepower for that.  Strangely enough I’ve considered retiring to the city of San Francisco which is of course the polar opposite of small town America.  I’ve lived in San Francisco for a few years and I enjoy it.  One of the best cities in the world; a diverse, progressive, multi-cultural and vibrant place.  For a short time we talked about Mexico.  Trouble is it’s a violent place these days and I don’t fancy waking up some morning with my head in the bathroom sink and my body still lying in bed.  In my dreams I’ve considered a little village in Tuscany; if the wife doesn’t want rural America what makes me think she’d go for rural Italy.  And what in the hell would I do as a retiree?  Since my wife has put the kibosh on stepping out the back door for some fly fishing I’ve thought that maybe I could go into coaching again (that was fun when I did it), or be a docent at a museum or maybe a ball dude at Giants games. Of late though we’ve put some serious consideration into retiring to my wife’s native Philippines.

"Why The P.I,?" you ask.  Well part of it goes back to my reasons for wanting to leave the workforce.  Something’s happened here.  That meanness, the growing dearth of humanity and the overall social Darwinism that’s infected the workplace is metastasizing into American society as a whole.  We’ve seen the meanness in folks who don’t give a second thought about denying their fellow citizens health insurance because, "I've got mine, sucks for you."  We’ve seen it at a presidential debate in an audience booing a soldier because he’s gay; a soldier defending the rights of those catcallers to be crass and bigoted.  And we see the selfishness every day; the folks who park in the handicapped spot because they’re lazy and don’t need to be inconvenienced, the line cutters, the cell phone gabbers who’s conversation is more important than the rest of the world that doesn’t want to hear their yammering, the smokers who smoke where they want, rules or not and the foster parents in it for the money who celebrate their children’s 18^th birthday by kicking them to the curb because the last government check is in the mail.  The recent chic of coldness brings to mind a scene from Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” in which Scrooge encounters two men collecting money for the poor.  Scrooge who by no means wishes to donate any of his means asks the men if the prisons and workhouses are still in operation.  The men respond that those institutions are indeed still in operation and offer that many of the poor “would rather die” than go there.  To that Scrooge responds, “If they would rather die they had better do it and decrease the surplus population."  Are we becoming a Dickensian society? If you listened closely to some of the recent political debates you might think so.  And if we aren’t there yet would we get there if one of those candidates was elected and could have his or her way? 

Despite what you might think I love my country.  And it’s because I do love my country that I feel such a deep disappointment in what we’re becoming.  My growing disappointment boiled to the surface in recent months leading me to suggest to my wife that we retire to her country.  It wasn’t met with the same resistance that retiring to the foothills did; so I guess it’s plausible.  I know what you’re saying; “You think The P.I. is some kind of Eden?  You think they don’t have problems there?  You think there’s a big middle class there?  No gun play?  No crime?  You think they don’t have a corrupt government?”  Truth is I don’t think any of those things.  I do know that they don’t get embroiled in the business of other countries and as a result don’t get tangled in endless, costly and divisive wars. That in itself might be refreshing.  It’s taken my 57 years to reach this downer.  If it takes me half that long to get disenchanted with The Philippines I’ll be so doddering it won’t really matter will it.

Another truth is that I’ve never been to the Philippines.  What if I don’t like the heat (I hear that you can’t blow if off there with the old saying, “But it’s a dry heat.”)?  What if I don’t like living on an island?  What if I get sick of lumpia?  And let’s face it, traveling across the Pacific to catch a Giants game is tougher than gutting out Bay Bridge traffic.  After a year or so would I pine for a crisp, chilly Christmas, football in the fall, pitchers and catchers reporting, the pumpkin festival in Half Moon Bay and yes even the gridlock of Bay Area traffic and California politics?  So I guess an overriding concern is what if I just don’t like the lifestyle and the culture?

I know that my wife and I could be comfortable there.  I’ve a co-worker who assures me that I can have a maid for fifty dollars a month; wait on me hand and foot, cook my meals, clean my house and load my pipe, that is if I smoked a pipe.  I assured him back that I’m not interested in a domestic since I prefer doing things for myself.  And hell, I can’t pay someone a pittance for an honest day’s work.  I would have to pay a decent wage and that would just piss off my maid employing neighbors for raising the domestic’s standard of living.

And then there is the overriding concern that I would have to pull myself away from my children and grandchildren.  Could I pull myself away?  I can’t imagine that a white sand beach with warm inviting waters and a lifestyle where I have no doubt about my financial security trumps a raucous Sunday afternoon with my son and daughter exchanging good natured barbs and the grandchildren screaming about ouwies.

My wife’s retirement is impending; January of 2013.  Mine is a few years behind that unless I opt for the keyboard face plant.  That we sunk over ten grand in getting the joint painted inside and out means we’re in it for the pretty foreseeable future; that and the crummy housing market.

Even as I write this I’m writing off that notion of retiring to The P.I.  Hell, all I’ve known is the Bay Area and what makes me think I could turn my back on Thanksgiving with the family, the Dallas Cowboys, the Detroit Lions and the blathering sportscasters.

It’s funny how the American Dream goes through metamorphosis (even as I craft a blog post).  Twenty five years ago we wanted a big house.  Now we’re looking for a bungalow.  Thirty years ago we wanted high paying challenging jobs.  Meh, now I could stand something simple and less stressful; without being a damn greeter.  I could easily be a volunteer docent at a historical site or volunteer at the animal shelter or the local library.  I should even if it's not easy, do something like help the deacon of my church with her street ministry.  She doesn't so much bring God to the streets as she does the more tangible help of food, clothing, a helping hand and lending an ear.  If I do nothing else in retirement I need to put in some time doing something meaningful.  I've spent most of my life working for "the man," I need to spend some of my life working for man.  Forty years ago and just getting out of college the American Dream of a a career was shrouded in an uncertain fog and now at career's end the next chapter of the American Dream is just as shrouded and uncertain.  As recently as five years ago the idea of retirement seemed financially impossible; and I’m still on the fence on that.  As far back as thirty five years ago I did have a vague retirement sight set on the rural River Runs Through It, wettin' a line on a crisp daybreak to the sound of waking birds and a rifling stream.  Do you suppose that if I get the wife fly fishing lessons for Christmas she’ll change her mind? 

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