Retirement, a word youth shies away from like aches, pains, wrinkles and forgetfulness, is for some of us oldsters, dreamlike and just beyond imagination. When I was young I thought ahead to the next paycheck, not the last passage past work into retirement. I thought about providing for the plural, as in family, not the singular, as in me. It worked then, now, not so much.

Approaching retirement age is a conundrum. On one hand the idea of living off the clock is appealing but the realization that I was teetering on the cliff edge of mature, ready to step into the bottomless crevasse of old, had me terrified. Where did my life go, I wondered, how did I get here so fast, why aren’t I better prepared.

Folks like me have been asking ourselves those questions since life expectancy got us out of the caves and past death at 30 to downsizing and a daily golf game in our 70s. What’s old anyway? It’s not what it used to be.

The idea that I can wake up when I want to and catch the second hour of “Good Morning America” while still in my ratty blue bathrobe, is appealing. A leisurely second cup of coffee instead of a to-go cup in the car on the way to work sounds great. That I wouldn’t have to take orders from a gung-ho company — someone sitting behind a corporate desk who is oblivious to my needs, seems far-fetched. But it’s out there and approaching. Actually, I’m past retirement age, whatever that is, yet not emotionally or financially ready.

My father loved retirement. Each morning he’d sit on the couch, arms stretched out on the back cushions and discuss the day’s menu. After coffee, a small breakfast and enough meds and vitamins to stock a small drugstore, he’d head to the supermarket to gather what he needed. Weekly food shopping may have been more practical, but bulking the food vault daily became his job. After his forays to the store, he’d tinker in his woodshop during the afternoon, and then cook sumptuous evening meals. He considered his life perfect, therefore it was. My mother blamed him for her weight issues but that’s another story.

My mom hated the idea of not working. She felt that retirement was a waste of life. If she wasn’t doing, planning or executing a task, she felt less than worthy. Self-employed for the last 17 years of her 50-plus years of employed life, she floundered once she retired. So she took a part-time job at a dry cleaners when she was well into her 70s. The seriousness with which she considered her counter/cash register work was noble, and she would have worked there until the day she died, if only the nuances of the computer system were not beyond her grasp. Once home for good she wasn’t disappointed or considered herself a failure, she felt relieved. To finally relax was a privilege for her. To join my father on the couch to plan their day, was a Godsend.

For me retirement will be a little like my father, making the daily effort to consider the importance of downtime, and my mother’s need to be useful. Right now my job is energetically tough at times. Not long hours, (but considered full-time), it is often mentally and physically strenuous. Each day I tell myself how lucky I am to at least have a job and no doubt I am grateful to be physically able to do what I do. But, sitting on the couch and planning the evening meal seems enticing. Problem is, my husband does most of the cooking.

Carolynn is not looking for a job at a dry cleaners. You can reach her at cp.enoughsaid@aol.com