Continuing the theme of creeping decrepitude: How do you know when it’s time to retire? If you are under 18, you’re probably not ready unless you have inherited great wealth or are an incredible wastrel. Older than 18, examine your job satisfaction.
There are three warning signs to consider when making the big decision:
1. If going to work makes you miserable, it’s time to retire. Conversely, if going in to work makes everyone around you miserable, it’s time to retire.
2. If you fall asleep at meetings, it’s time to retire. Alternately, if you stay awake at meetings but have no idea what transpired, it’s time to retire.
3. If tasks once challenging have become routine, then tedious and ultimately impossible to perform, it’s time to retire.
I retired recently after almost a half century in academia. While I don’t ever want to go back, there are a few things that I miss.
I miss the persistent institutional politics, the backstabbing, the bad-mouthing, and the character assassination i.e. the essential core of any work environment. I also miss the whining from those who were never sufficiently appreciated, whose careers were marked by being victims, and who were alienated by not being part of the cool lunch table.
I do not miss grading papers. After 37 years as an English teacher, I estimate that I may have read and marked upwards of 12,000 pieces of freshman writing, by definition bad writing. In one of the lowest circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno, perhaps the cruelest and most unusual punishment meted out to sinners is an eternity grading freshman papers. Sinners in that circle beg to be boiled in blood or torn apart by beasts like the luckier souls in other infernal circles.
Grading a really bad paper does provide the opportunity for constructive career counseling such as, “Perhaps college is not for you. Have you considered skydiving—without a parachute?”
I’m not sure if I miss the ingenuous yet painful remarks from students, like, “My mother (or grandmother) had you as a teacher.”
I might miss the students who returned and told me I taught them how to write, “You taught me how to write, and it changed my life.” But I’m not sure anything like that ever occurred.
I do miss lunch with the colleagues that I liked—both of them. Then, again, they have retired too.
As an administrator (for 11 years) I do not miss writing personnel evaluations, chores that became as draining as essay grading. Relief was provided by the welcome occasions when I could provide constructive comments to faculty: “The professor is singularly gifted. Entire class comatose minutes after lecture began. Similar effect on students in two adjacent classrooms.”
I relished making similarly helpful comments on select administrative staff: “Individual’s manner so abrasive that he/she frequently makes co-workers cry.”
Incidentally, a tendency to indulge in such ever-so-subtle expressions of cruelty is one more indication that it might be time to retire.
I do not miss endless meetings dominated by compulsive talkers who droned on despite the fact that no one was listening to them and never had. I do miss my museum-worthy doodling that kept me sane while those logorrhea-stricken maniacs nattered away.
I miss the bike ride to work on those few days when it wasn’t too cold or wet. In fact, as retirement neared, biking in was the best part of the day. I’d arrive at my office exhilarated and sweaty, perhaps not so much of a pleasure for colleagues. A shower was available. Sometimes, I used it.
Once the decision to retire is made, one terrifying prospect looms for most people: What am I going to do when I stop working? I like to tell people that’s not a problem. You’ll sit around watching daytime television and break up the monotony by accompanying the spouse to the supermarket looking for bargains on bananas.
The more responsible response (both inevitable and incredible) comes from everyone else, “I’m so busy now that I don’t know how I ever had time for work.”
Thoughtful folks assert that one needs to have a plan before retiring—perhaps a second career. I am vaguely tempted by help-wanted signs for check-out baggers or heavy equipment operators. But I know that if I took either position, I’d quickly be immersed in workplace politics i.e. backstabbing, bad-mouthing, and character assassination.
Instead of seeking gainful employment I paint steps, fix running toilets, prune shrubs and hang out with grandchildren, teaching them all about backstabbing, bad-mouthing, and character assassination, skills a three-year-old can’t learn too soon.
Despite expectations from others, I have not gone quietly mad since retiring. Nor do I reflect wistfully on how much I miss working. In fact, I feel pretty good.
Robin Schore lives in Titusville.
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