I'm gettin' over it, I'm gettin' over it...

Fuzzy Lenz stopped by on Saturday, to measure the area out the back door for some sort of flagstone/brick masonry installation. We could keep stepping off the rickety plywood “temporary” steps (which Jeff assembled roughly 12 years ago) into the grassless mudflats which comprise that third of the backyard, but perhaps (I’m thinking) if we make the back door appealing I will be inspired to stop decorating the backyard with old ladders and dog doodoo, and plant a shrub or two instead.

Fuzzy, it seems, does good work. He installed the brick and concrete walkways which surround Gordon and Tracy’s chateau. My goal now, will be to discourage him broaching--any further--the topic of “retirement.”

Here’s what he said Saturday morning, if I may resort to a rough paraphrase: How’s retirement Jeff? Wow. Not sure I’d want to retire. My brother-in-law retired at 60 and went straight downhill from there. Sure, it’s good so long as you stay active. I guess you stay active, right Jeff?

This is not too unlike the ”Retired? You lucky dog!” comments which are not uncommon at cocktail parties (which are, fortunately, the sort of things we rarely go to.)

So, I smile blandly, wondering if it would be appropriate to accidentally spill a drink (or coffee in the case of Saturday morning) on the speaker, so as to nip the topic mercifully in the bud.

In truth, at this point, we would both rather be employed than not, but he cannot, and--as leaving someone who cannot turn on the oven alone all day is not good mojo--it is inadvisable that I seek outside employment.

Which brings me to the crux of why I am a cranky person who keeps promising to blog in an upbeat manner, but whines instead: At no point have I liked the idea that I would be spending an unspecified number of years acting as administrative companion to a disabled person whose formerly diverting personality has, to a large degree, evaporated. But, as recently as a couple years ago, I was able to believe that I held the ace, or consolation prize of “being a writer”; that this, in fact, was something of a purpose in life which I could pursue while attending to my administrative companionship duties. However, now that I can look semi-objectively at the fact that I’ve written 3½ crappy to tolerable, unpublishable books, the delusion is failing me. So I’m feeling like a rather horribly drab critter, incapable of the creativity necessary to sustain the saving grace of having a meaningful creative outlet. So ick. (Not the fish disease, the sentiment.)

Well wow, that’s whiny. Maybe I shouldn’t post it. But I will, because it explains, succinctly, my personal mid-life crisis.

I’m still planning to stumble upon something to do which is more worthwhile than devoting years to 25-chapter novels destined to collect dust. And while I am waiting, if you decide to expound upon the pluses and minuses of retirement, in Jeff’s earshot, I will spill orange juice on you.