WHAT NOW?
Task 57, June 12 to June 19
“In retirement, I look for days off from my days off.” M.K. Soni
This is one man’s view of retirement, written by Paul C., my brother from another mother and my podcast co-host. Enjoy.
Two years ago, at age 64, I met, begrudgingly and prematurely, retirement. I had always planned to work until I was 70. It’s just a number, I know, but it was a number that represented six more years of purpose, routine, and familiarity.
But plans change. So do circumstances. So I made the leap into the great unknown that is retirement. That was two years ago. Now the odometer has rolled over to 66. I’m on Medicare, and beyond that, life seems to have run out of instructions for me.
You see, I never really thought about what my life would look like beyond my working years. Since I was 13 years old, I’ve always had a job. More importantly, I’ve always enjoyed whatever work I happened to be doing. Looking back, I can honestly say I never felt like I worked a day in my life.
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If there is a downside to a lifestyle consumed by my career it was that I never developed hobbies.
I don’t golf. I don’t particularly enjoy reading. Physically, pickleball isn’t in the cards. I don’t have children, and my family tree is sparse enough that there are no grandchildren’s soccer games waiting to fill my calendar.
So what exactly is a person supposed to do?
People tell me, “Go volunteer.”
I have nothing against volunteering, but I still feel the need to earn something. Not because I need the money. I don’t. It’s simply what I’ve done for more than half a century. Work has always been part of my identity.
Living here on what feels like the edge of America in South Carolina, I began searching for whatever my calling might be at this stage of life.
As a teenager, I lived and worked at a hotel-apartment complex, doing everything from laundry and carpet shampooing to hauling trash. When a nearby beachfront hotel advertised for a bellman, I thought it might be perfect. I could ride my bike to work and handle the duties with relative ease.
Then a coworker got COVID. Shortly afterward, so did I.
That experience convinced me that the job wasn’t worth the physical effort for wages that were roughly what I had earned forty years earlier.
Having spent part of my career working around airports, I decided to try driving for Uber and Lyft. I completed the paperwork, got my car inspected, and hit the road.
The problem was that I always imagined passengers would want to go where I wanted to go.
I figured everyone arriving at the airport would be headed toward my side of town.
They weren’t.
One day, while sitting at a traffic light next to a Brinks armored truck, I remembered meeting a man years ago whose job was flying bulk shipments of newly issued passports around the country. The idea fascinated me. I thought, “Now that’s something I could do.”
Unfortunately, I never found a job posting.
After moving to South Carolina, I came across an online casting notice seeking extras for The Righteous Gemstones. I enjoyed the show, so the next morning I reported for wardrobe and makeup. I never actually appeared on camera, but I earned about $75 and got a glimpse into a world I’d never experienced before.
That, at least, was interesting.
Today, I go to the gym four times a week and genuinely enjoy it. My wife Louise—who, thanks to legal technicalities, isn’t recognized as my wife by South Carolina because we never formally married—has a long list of jobs she thinks I SHOULDN’T do.
For example, stocking shelves at Harris Teeters. Okay, fine.
My therapist suggested I work at the county park collecting entrance fees.
If you’ve ever watched Better Call Saul, you’ll understand why I immediately rejected that idea. In my mind, that job is only one step removed from becoming the manager of a Cinnabon before eventually ending up in some criminal enterprise.
So besides going to the gym, seeing my therapist, and taking advantage of Medicare’s efforts to repair the accumulated wear and tear of aging,
Ironically, I may have stumbled onto my latest venture.
For most of my life, I hated needles. As a child, I used to tell my parents they never had to worry about me becoming a drug addict because I couldn’t stand injections.
Yet over the past two months, I’ve discovered an unexpected way to earn money: donating plasma.
Louise was shocked when I told her.
Living in a relatively affluent area, most plasma centers are located in lower-income neighborhoods, so I drive about 20 miles each way. What attracted me wasn’t just the money, although the compensation certainly got my attention.
Plasma is valuable. Hospitals need it. Patients depend on it.
Depending on the visit, donations can pay anywhere from $45 to $125. Considering South Carolina’s minimum wage remains $7.25 an hour—a figure that feels stuck somewhere in the 1970s—it seemed worth exploring.
The only problem is my veins.
Medicare and the doctors at MUSC recently cured the severe varicose veins in my legs, but my arms remain a challenge. My veins are practically invisible. Stick me once. Stick me twice. Add a little bruising for good measure.
Still, after four visits, I’ve earned $349.
Not bad for someone who once feared every needle in sight.
So here I am at 66.
Devoted to Louise.
Devoted to three beloved huskies.
Still passionate about travel.
Still curious about the world.
Still wanting to contribute.
Still wanting to earn.
And still wondering:
What exactly am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?
Task: Think about what you want out of retirement.