Retirement is a Numbers Game. And you won't like how they add up.

not the actual graphic from the article

 

 

Retirement Steps

This isn't what you think. 

 

by Noreen Braman

 

The only way the word “retire” is going to be in my vocabulary will be about “retiring” my car. With tires. Which I just did and have 80,000 miles before the next “retiring.” Me and my 2013 Hyundai still have lots of roads to travel, both figuratively and literally. In age, me and the car are similar, and still on the road. No fancy back-up camera or computerized screen. Just the mechanical, adjustable rear-view mirror, and a backlit dashboard counting my miles, my temperature, and how far I can drive before I need gas. I am proud to drive a 6-speed with the original clutch. People are surprised. A little like the dentist who always praises my original teeth. With no cavities. (Well, one.) To use a phrase that will absolutely date me, I just keep on truckin’.

Still, I am surrounded by people making plans for retirement or actually retiring, including some who haven’t even waited for that magic retirement age algorithm. There are others who vow to “never retire,” and they come in two groups. The first group who define themselves as their work and can’t imagine doing anything else with their lives.  This is the “I’ll die with my boots on” group. The second group, while contemplating they will also die with their boots on, are people like me. Those unable to contemplate how to live once the paychecks stop. Those of us who, for most of our lives, lived paycheck to paycheck, remortgaged houses, dipped into savings for an emergency (and maybe the luxury of a vacation or two) or otherwise have not amassed the million dollars currently thought of as the bare minimum to retire on. (No, you can’t include social security or pensions in that – that’s one million aside from any other money you have or will get).

Me, I took my social security at the age that was specified – no early start for me. Combining that with my full-time job and my part-time public speaking felt very strange. I developed a habit of checking my bank account just to look at how much money was there – after paying bills and buying groceries. I didn’t run out and buy a sportscar, but I did start doing things that I never would have done before. Some short holiday trips. Attending a conference in Arizona. Flying to visit family. Planning a cruise 3 years in advance. Putting a deck on the back of the house. Stuff like that.  For five years I felt like a huge burden had been lifted. The first time in my working life I was NOT working paycheck to paycheck. Then came that birthday. The decade changer. I turned 70.

It's been only a few months, but my always ready to rise anxiety woke up. Almost every morning I wake up with physical manifestations of anxiety – adrenaline pumping and an unformed feeling of fear. My old friend, from my paycheck-to-paycheck days had returned. Because turning 70 brought along some new fears. Fear of Cognitive Decline, Health Problems, the Never-Ending Unpaid Mortgage, All the Clutter in the House, Work Weariness, and Unfinished Business which includes “Final Expenses.”

Then along comes Arthur C. Brooks, who in 2019, wrote an article, titled, in large letters, Your Professional Decline Is Coming (Much) Sooner Than You Think, and in tiny letters the subheading: Here’s how to make the most of it. The reason I have encountered this article is because The Atlantic has been sharing this as a teaser all around social media to encourage subscriptions. I am curious as to how many new subscribers signed up from seeing this article, and how old they are.

 The graph at the top of the article stopped me in my tracks. A man with glasses and a briefcase is standing at the top of a staircase. Behind him are steps rising up in numbers, each a decade in life.  Age 10, age 20, age 30, age 40, and then the pinnacle at age 50.

The man is peeking over the other side which shows a precipitous drop from 50 to 60. 60 is lined up at age 20. Next is the drop to 70, where the graph ENDS. The age of 10 is on the left-hand side in line with 70. There are no more steps to go down. Just underground.

I couldn’t read the article. At age 70, what could it tell me? Settle my affairs? How can I do that when my cognitive abilities are now in line with a 10-year-old? Sure, I was a pretty smart 10-year-old, honor roll and all that, but a 10-year-old needs supervision, no matter how smart they are for their age. And what about supporting myself? I was a pretty cool babysitter at 10, having 2 younger sisters.  However, me bouncing into someone’s house now with the cognition of a 10-year-old, who quite possibly knows nothing about computers, or microwaves, or back-up car cameras, OR THE INTERNET – parents wouldn’t trust me for a second.

 So now I am wondering, why I am still able to work, to drive, to find my way around, take care of my house, my car, remember all my kids and grandkids names, as well as knowing quite a few of the Jeopardy questions when younger contestants are staring into space – will my brain suddenly remember this chart and just cut me off?  Like right now

 

 

"Why is it always water?" - one of my children, mopping up

Buy "Treading Water" special limited price

 

 

 

Another Watery Adventure

 

 A blast from the past by Noreen Braman 

 

Introduction: After completing my book “Treading Water” I knew that it probably didn’t mean the end of watery adventures

Yesterday, an appliance malfunction reminded me that water-related events continue to haunt me. I thought I was safe when the 100-year flood in Jamesburg only brought water into my yard and right up to my deck, but not into my crawlspace or house. For the past several winters I have scrupulously avoided frozen, burst water pipes by always remembering to let the kitchen faucet trickle, just a tiny bit. And the Atlantic Ocean has allowed me to maintain my dignity by not knocking me down or removing my swimwear during my summer visits. But, the water may be still, but it is running deep. I have a toilet that refuses to be fixed, and will run water incessantly if not closely monitored. The way the little chain manages to knot itself up, despite numerous adjustments, points to more at work than faulty parts. Which brings me to this week's adventure, in which two elements conspired against me, water AND fire — or at least smoke.

In preparation for a seminar in NYC, I threw in a load of laundry that included just about every seminar-suitable piece of clothing I own. I also included the only jeans that fit me comfortably. Basically, I left out formal wear, outfits that require panty hose, and sweats. As the washer filled up, I filled the teakettle (with what else, water). When the teakettle whistled I came back into the kitchen and noticed an odd smell. The air seemed to have a lot of teakettle steam in it. As I poured the water into the teacup, I realized that the smell was more smoky than steamy, that it was getting worse and that the washer had stopped.

As soon as I got near the washer, I realized the smoky stink was coming from it, and my first thought was that the motor was burning up. I tried to pull the washer out so I could pull the plug, but of course, true to the way my life goes, the washer was full of water. I turned it off, but the stink was growing and I expected to see flames behind the washer at any minute. A fireman's brigade was quickly formed to empty the water from the washer and dump it in the sink, using a bucket, a pot and some water bottles. My eyes burned and my throat hurt as we bailed and bailed until finally the washer was light enough to move.

Thankfully, the plug was not hot, no wires were burning, at least on the outside of the washer. No flames were evident, and with no power, the washer cooled down. The smoky stink clung to everything in the house. My mind flashed back to the apartment I lived in when I was 18. A basement apartment. An apartment that might not have been legal due to the insufficient plumbing. The way I learned about that was the day I came home to find sewer water spewing up out of my toilet and my kitchen sink. It was 4 inches deep in the kitchen. Luckily, at that time, I had a portable washer, and I spent a long evening with a bucket, dumping the water into the washer, and then putting the drain hose out the window to get rid of the fouls smelling stuff.

I was able to break my lease shortly after that. Getting the smell out of my belongings took a lot longer. Today, I hauled all the sopping wet clothes from this recent washer adventure outside and hung them to drip dry. I skipped the seminar (having nothing to wear) and began the "waiting for the repairman" ritual. While waiting, I counted all the pennies I could find to try and determine if I could replace the stackable washer and dryer if indeed the motor was fried. It was looking more and more like I would be patronizing the disgusting, expensive laundromat in town.

I greeted the repairman like a teenager meeting a pop star, and hovered nearby as he began to take apart the washer. Taking off the cover let out a last gasp of choking stink, and we both coughed. The repairman did his thing while I tried not to overwhelm him with anxious questions. Finally, his head came out from under the washer. In his hand was what looked like a giant seal from a mason jar. It was black and crunchy. It was a "belt" and it had slipped out of wherever it was supposed to be, and it had burned the only way rubber knows how to burn — by stinking up the place.

He replaced the belt, we ran the washer through its paces, and to my great relief, it worked fine! The specter of the laundromat faded from my brain. I could hear my checkbook actually sign with relief. Later, as I reloaded the washer with the original load of clothes, I thought, maybe the water stuck in the washer when it stopped wasn't again the universe's damp way of compounding a problem for me.

Maybe the water was there to protect me, in case the overheated belt actually did start some flames. Maybe water is finally my friend. I may have to stop torturing it in the teakettle.