Retirement

A Good Life, According to the Wrong Measuring Stick

It is a cruel trick when your iPhone, your glasses, and the gunk in the corner of your eye are suspected of collaborating on a birthday surprise. As I picked up my phone, all the text and overnight notifications were much blurrier than I remembered the night before. A few blinks and removing the trifocals from the equation helped, but not enough to make me enthusiastic about starting another birthday. My eyes had evidently decided to celebrate by reducing their services. I would have appreciated a little advance notice, or at least a senior discount on the remaining vision.

Birthdays have a way of making me wonder what I’ve accomplished during the previous year. I’m not expecting a parade or a certificate suitable for framing, but I would like to feel that another trip around the sun was worth the fuel. For most of my adult life, I had a reasonably reliable way to measure that. Business accomplishments, financial goals, and the occasional successful attempt to keep our family functioning provided something tangible. These days, the financial goals have largely been met, but my brain hasn’t updated its procedures. It still wants to know what I’ve produced, preferably with a dollar sign attached. Unfortunately, most of what I do now produces dirty dishes, additional laundry, and the occasional heartfelt thank-you. If somebody knows of a surgical procedure that could reset my expectations without interfering with my ability to make coffee, I’m willing to discuss it.

Earlier this week, our hockey boys asked if he could bring four friends over for pizza and the hot tub. We agreed, which meant I headed to Sam’s for supplies and had the hot tub water tested. I wanted to make sure the boys’ first reaction to entering the water didn’t involve screaming or a request for medical attention. The evening also required our chicken barbecue pizza and chocolate chip cookies baked from a tub of dough purchased at Sam’s. We supplied the oven and removed the cookies before they burned, which I believe qualifies us as bakers under a sufficiently generous definition.

The boys ate their dinner, enjoyed the hot tub, and spent a few hours relaxing. At some point, one of them told me, “I really needed that.” He’s been coming to our Friday breakfasts, and I’ve gotten to know him a little. He’s a good kid, and his words meant more than the usual thank-you. Junior hockey can be a chaotic existence, with games, practices, roster changes, and enough drama to keep a television network supplied for several seasons. For a few hours, our house provided a place where none of that mattered. They could eat, laugh, and enjoy being teenagers without worrying about what the coach might have planned for them tomorrow.

Our recent visit from our Chinese exchange student provided another reminder of how strangely these things work out. Thirteen years after living with us, she still calls us Mom and Dad. When we welcomed her into our home, we weren’t thinking about building a lifelong relationship. We were probably more concerned with whether she would eat what we cooked and how much additional laundry she would generate. Yet here we are, more than a decade later, still part of each other’s lives. Between fostering, exchange students, children of missionaries, random kids we somehow acquired through Facebook, and hockey players, we’ve had more than 80 young people live in our home who weren’t biologically ours. That’s a lot of teenagers, a lot of meals, and an impressive amount of evidence that we never mastered the art of saying no.

Living near two of our adult children has created another collection of activities that wouldn’t look particularly impressive on a résumé. I can help our granddaughter with the grandkids, run an errand when someone needs me, or collect mail for a son who’s traveling. I’ve considered adding “Director of Residential Postal Logistics” to my résumé, although I would probably need to clarify that the position is unpaid and involves walking approximately 30 feet. My gym membership has been remarkably patient with my lack of participation, and there are plenty of hobbies I could pursue if I weren’t so available to everyone else. But I like being involved in my kids’ lives. I’m also somewhat amazed that after all the years we spent raising them, they still enjoy having us around. I would have understood if they’d wanted to establish a reasonable distance from the people who spent their childhoods telling them to clean their rooms and turn off the lights.

I wonder what the Andy of 20 years ago would think if I could sit him down and explain how everything turned out. First, he’d be surprised that we live in Oklahoma, where tornadoes go to mingle. He’d have a few questions about why we’ve invited hockey players to live with us for months at a time, considering that his knowledge of hockey was largely limited to being able to spell it. He’d be pleased that our children turned out well, relieved that Judy continued to put up with him, and delighted to discover that grandchildren are every bit as wonderful as people claim. He might also be impressed that we’ve expanded our cooking repertoire to include guacamole, although he’d probably wonder why it took us so long to discover avocados.

Twenty years ago, life sometimes felt overwhelming. Raising children, working, paying bills, and trying to keep everything moving in the right direction required more energy than I occasionally had available. I wondered when things would get easier. I would love to tell that younger version of myself that they do. Much easier, in fact. The kids grow up, the financial pressures ease, and you eventually reach a point where you can spend an afternoon doing something simply because you want to. You may even find yourself inviting five teenagers over for pizza without first calculating the effect on your retirement account.

I think the younger Andy would be happy with where we ended up. He might be a little confused by the older Andy’s reluctance to call himself retired, but that would probably be the least of his concerns after hearing about the hockey players. What he’d have more trouble understanding is why someone who has reached so many of the goals he once worked toward still spends time wondering whether he’s accomplishing enough.

Maybe that’s one reason I keep writing about my days. When I’m living them, they can seem pretty ordinary. A trip to Sam’s, a few hours with hockey players, an afternoon helping my daughter, or a visit from someone we welcomed into our family years ago. Writing about those moments gives me a chance to look back and recognize that they added up to something. I may not have accomplished anything that would impress a banker, but I occasionally manage to do something that matters to another person.

As I start another year, I would like to get better at giving myself credit for the life I’m living rather than continuing to measure it against the one I used to have. I doubt I’ll ever completely silence the part of my brain that wants a more impressive accounting of my time. It’s been running the operation for decades, and I don’t expect it to surrender control without a fight. But if another year brings more opportunities to be there for the people I care about, I’ll have accomplished something worth celebrating.

Even if my internal accounting department refuses to approve the expense.

I’ve Stopped Helping Trouble Find Me

I don’t know what age I was when I stopped inviting trouble into my life. There wasn’t one particular incident that straightened me out, although there were several qualified applicants. Somewhere along the way, I became more willing to consider what could go wrong before doing something that would help it happen. Trouble still finds me. I just try to make it put forth some effort.

This could be an extension of my anti-drama stance, but I think it goes a little deeper. I am not as young as I used to be. My patience, balance, and mental acuity may have lost a few ticks over the past few decades. I don’t believe any of them have reached a concerning level, but I would prefer to discover that through ordinary living rather than an incident requiring X-rays. If one way involves more steps and less luck, I generally take the extra steps.

If I need a ladder, I get a ladder. I don’t stack a couple of buckets with a chair thrown in just to make it interesting. My balance is still pretty good. However, a spider web across my face could cause me to abandon everything I know about remaining upright. Getting something solid to stand on seems like a reasonable precaution against discovering how quickly I can get down.

I learned something about trusting objects around forty years ago while leaving Cedar Point. For reasons that made sense within the limited review process I had at the time, I decided to leapfrog over a trash can. I assumed the lid would support my weight. The lid was partially broken, which was information I would have benefited from acquiring before committing to the maneuver. I made it to the other side, where my face and right elbow met the blacktop. The elbow broke. Walking around the trash can would have been a competitive option.

These days, I’m more respectful of anything I have to climb over, step across, or stand on. A bathtub deserves a little attention. So does a change in elevation that I might once have cleared while carrying something and looking somewhere else. I don’t assume my balance will rescue every poor decision I make. As for leapfrogging, I’m limiting that activity to my granddaughter, Ellie. Even that opportunity has an expiration date. She keeps getting taller, and I haven’t noticed any corresponding improvement in my vertical leap.

I have also stepped down from my position in the poor driver reeducation program. I used to believe that if a guy came up behind me weaving through traffic, somebody needed to stand up to him. On occasion, I volunteered while my children were in the car. Looking back, it is difficult to explain how involving them in a confrontation with an idiot supported my larger goal of keeping them safe. I’m sure I had an explanation. I’m equally sure it would irritate me now.

I finally accepted that fixing stupid was more than one man could take on, particularly while operating a vehicle. Now I let them pass and pray they learn something without hurting innocent people. I still notice. I still have an opinion. But I can get home without making sure a stranger knows how disappointed I am in his driving. He has probably received feedback before.

Some invitations are less obvious. A conversation can be going along pleasantly, and I will think of something I could add. Sometimes I even know, before saying it, that the contribution is unlikely to improve anyone’s afternoon. That brief moment of advance notice is useful if I’m willing to pay attention to it. I don’t always need to find out whether the subject is still touchy. The previous findings may remain valid.

This has required some adjustment with my grown children. When they were younger, I remember being able to talk about almost anything. They may remember having fewer opportunities to escape. Now they have their own lives and opinions, and there are conversational doors I know are closed. Occasionally, a lock appears on one I thought was open. I don’t always understand it, and I can’t say I never rattle the handle. But I’m trying to respect the boundaries I know about. I love my kids. I would like them to look forward to talking with me without first considering what they might need to defend.

I told my daughter recently that life feels much less stressful now. When the kids were younger, so much revolved around keeping them safe and getting things done quickly so we could enjoy more time together. In theory, that was a very good plan. In practice, I kept finding ways we could be more efficient, which kept the pressure on. There was always something to finish, somewhere to be, or a way to save a few minutes. I wasn’t giving much thought to how often my hurry introduced the possibility of a problem we didn’t already have.

With the kids grown and more control over my day, I have fewer reasons to rush and more freedom to be selective. I can take an extra minute, leave a comment unsaid, or let somebody else get ahead of me. I like the life Judy and I have. I like being available to my children and spending time with Ellie. I would prefer not to complicate any of that because I couldn’t be bothered to get the step stool or let an argument pass.

This doesn’t mean I have idiot-proofed my life successfully. The idiot still has access to all the controls. We will continue to have adventures, and occasionally I will extend an invitation bigger than I realized. Judy is still my safety net when that happens. I’m grateful for the times she has helped me through something, including the ones where I supplied a considerable amount of the problem. I would like to give her fewer of those opportunities.

There is enough that can happen without my assistance. For the things I can see coming, I’m getting more comfortable taking the precaution and going on with my day. It’s usually a pretty good day. I’d like to let it stay that way.

The Semi in Semi-Retired

Judy has crunched all the numbers, consulted our financial advisor, and reached a conclusion. My favorite AI bot agrees with her. It’s time for me to start collecting Social Security. The financial case is convincing, and the final decision is mine. Three sources of advice have reached the same conclusion, yet here I sit, refusing to complete the paperwork. It’s comforting to know that even in retirement, I can still make a simple decision unnecessarily complicated.

Judy thinks I should jump on the Social Security train and ride it as long as I can. When she retires, I may qualify for a higher spousal benefit, depending on our circumstances. We’ve done the homework, and the numbers make sense. I could take the money, save it, invest it, or eventually pass some of it along to the kids. It’s money I’ve spent a lifetime paying into the system, so there’s no reason to feel guilty about collecting it.

And yet, I haven’t done it.

The problem isn’t the money. It’s what happens when I start receiving it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve convinced myself that the first Social Security check will trigger an official change in my status. I’ll go from semi-retired to retired, and the guy looking back at me in the mirror will suddenly look a little older. My hair won’t turn white overnight, and my knees won’t immediately file for disability, but my brain may decide the government has officially confirmed what I’ve been trying not to acknowledge.

Yes, Andy, you’re old.

I realize this is ridiculous. I’ve been getting older every day since I was born, and the evidence isn’t difficult to find. I walk most days, watch my weight, and try to take reasonable care of myself. I have no particular desire to accelerate the process by accepting a government check that comes with what I perceive to be an unofficial certificate of old age.

So I’ve staged a small rebellion. The paperwork remains unfinished, and I’m protecting my self-esteem by refusing to complete a financial transaction that makes perfect sense. If this is how I intend to exercise my independence in retirement, Judy has reason to be concerned.

The irony is that I have no problem with the money itself. I’ve spent plenty of time watching Ellie, and now the twins, without receiving a paycheck. I don’t expect one, either. Grandchildren aren’t a franchise, and I don’t think the family would appreciate a billing system that charges by the hour, with additional fees for diaper changes and emergency snack delivery.

Still, there’s something amusing about spending years working for a living, followed by years providing free childcare, and then hesitating to collect money I’ve already paid into the system. I’ve developed a moral code that allows me to subsidize my family but makes me uncomfortable accepting reimbursement from the government.

The deeper I look, the more I realize that money isn’t the issue. I think I have trouble accepting that I may have reached a point where I don’t need to keep proving myself financially. For much of my adult life, there was always something to build, fix, improve, or figure out. Businesses needed attention, problems needed solving, and there was usually another opportunity waiting around the corner. Even when the opportunities were stressful, they gave me something to pursue.

Now I have the freedom to decide what comes next. Most days, that’s wonderful. Other days, I wonder whether I should be doing something more substantial with my time. I start thinking about another business, a franchise, or some other venture that might provide income and give me a new challenge.

When those feelings persist, I call a franchise consultant I’ve known for more than six years. On Tuesday, we resumed one of our ongoing conversations about what I might do next. He’s ten years older than I am and has been doing some reflection of his own. His observation was that whatever I pursue doesn’t have to be the most exciting or cutting-edge opportunity. It should be something that inspires people and makes a difference.

That gave me something to think about. My homework is to dig into the mental vault and figure out what that might look like in my life. I’m not sure what I’ll find in there. Some of the contents have been sitting around for years, and I suspect a few need dusting.

Of course, there’s the practical question of whether I should even consider another business. Do I have time for a franchise when I already have grandchildren to babysit and hockey boys to feed? Would Judy appreciate having her husband short-circuit their retirement plans because he’s decided freedom is more enjoyable when accompanied by a fresh set of obligations?

If I spend money buying myself a job, only to discover that I have less time for the people and activities I enjoy, I may have solved a problem that didn’t exist in the first place.

A few months ago, my plan was for Judy and me to hop on the happy retirement road together and see where it took us. My life has been largely retired for a while now, although I continue to cling to the word semi as though it provides some meaningful protection against the inevitable. I don’t mind telling people I’m semi-retired. It sounds as if I’m still in the game, even if nobody can quite explain what game I’m playing.

Removing the semi feels like a graduation. The Social Security check has become a symbol of that transition, even though I know it doesn’t prevent me from starting another business or pursuing something worthwhile. There’s a difference between knowing that intellectually and being comfortable with it emotionally.

I also need to be honest about something else. Judy works hard. She’s spent years earning enough to pay the bills and then some. While she doesn’t consider me a burden, I sometimes have trouble assigning the same value to what I contribute. She’s working, and I’m watching grandchildren, feeding hockey boys, and wondering whether I need another business. Somehow, the work that produces a paycheck still seems easier to measure than the work that produces a happy family.

That’s probably my problem, not hers.

When I picture Judy and me retiring together, the appeal isn’t simply that we’ll both be collecting Social Security. It’s that neither of us will be waiting for the other to catch up. We can make plans without having to work around somebody else’s schedule.

Want to take a spontaneous trip because we found a good deal? Why not? Drive around the country in a camper and visit a few national parks? Sounds good. Wake up on a Tuesday morning and decide to go out for breakfast because neither of us has anything more important to do? Absolutely.

I realize people have been doing these things for generations without requiring a government check to authorize them. Still, there’s something appealing about making the transition together, knowing we’ve reached a point where we can decide what comes next as a couple.

I don’t want retirement to feel like something that happened to me while Judy continues with her working life. I want it to be a decision we make together, trusting the financial choices we’ve made over the years to carry us into the next chapter. We can still change course if a terrific opportunity comes along, particularly if someone wants to pay me a ridiculous amount of money for a little part-time, remote work. I’m not so committed to retirement that I’ll turn down an easy buck. I’m just no longer interested in sacrificing the freedom I’ve earned to chase every possibility that crosses my path.

The truth is, I already have a pretty good life. I can spend time with Judy, help with the grandchildren, host hockey boys, and decide how I want to use the rest of my day. I can pursue something new if it genuinely interests me, or decide the opportunity isn’t worth the expense, responsibility, or time it would take away from the people I love.

That’s a level of freedom I spent many years working toward. It would be a shame to squander it simply because I’m uncomfortable with the idea that I might not need to accomplish quite so much anymore.

Perhaps I don’t need another business. Perhaps I need to learn how to enjoy the life I’ve already built without feeling as though I should be building something else. If I want to help someone or make a difference, I don’t necessarily need a business plan, a marketing budget, or a franchise agreement. And if I take on another challenge, it can be because I want to, rather than because I’m afraid of what happens when I stop pursuing things.

That last part may take a while.

A few decades ago, I was much more focused on making money and building a future for my family. I don’t regret that. It was the right priority for that stage of life. But I see things differently now. If making a few extra bucks means missing time with my grandchildren, I’d rather let someone else make the money. There are only so many opportunities to be present for the people you love, and I don’t want to spend my remaining years treating every available hour as an opportunity to produce something.

It’s a little sappy, I know. I wasn’t nearly so sentimental when I was busy raising our own children. Perhaps having grandchildren has softened me, or perhaps I’ve accumulated enough birthdays to understand that time is worth something even when it doesn’t generate income.

Either way, I need to recognize my own value without constantly looking for evidence on a balance sheet. My worth doesn’t disappear when business activity slows down, and it shouldn’t depend on whether I have another project underway. I can contribute to my family and the people around me without turning every interest into a potential source of income.

I may even be able to collect Social Security without immediately surrendering my identity to the retirement police.

For now, I still have the option of waiting. Perhaps Judy and I can make that transition together. The idea of jumping onto the retirement road alongside her is considerably more appealing than the prospect of going first and having to explain to myself what it all means.

I hope she can tolerate my hesitation a little longer. After all, the woman has put up with me for decades. A few more weeks of indecision shouldn’t be beyond her capabilities.

Besides, I have a reputation to protect. I don’t want the first Social Security check to cause some irreversible psychological change that turns me into the kind of old man who complains about the thermostat, the price of eggs, and people who don’t know how to use a turn signal. I’m already capable of doing all three, but I prefer to think of those episodes as deliberate performances rather than early symptoms.

Right now, the grumpy old man is mostly under control. I can bring him out when the situation calls for it and put him away when the grandchildren arrive. Once I accept the full implications of retirement, though, I’m concerned he might decide the cage is optional.

For the benefit of Judy, the kids, the grandchildren, and anyone unfortunate enough to share a checkout line with me, I think we should keep him locked up as long as possible.

I’ll get to that Social Security paperwork eventually. Just don’t expect me to remove the semi from my title on the same day.

The Strategic Value of Corn Hole

After dinner and a dessert consisting of homemade ice cream and baked goods last night, Judy and I stared at each other at 6:30. I could feel myself moving toward a conversation about how unexciting we old people are. Then it happened. My daughter suggested, “We could play some corn hole.” This is what we had done last year, and it was the perfect solution to the boredom that was threatening to take possession of our home.

The corn hole paraphernalia was right outside our back patio door. With such easy access, it was hard to believe it had probably only been moved once since last Labor Day, when I did a sweep of the back porch. A quick inspection of the bean bags was concerning. Apparently, they had not been designed to sail 20-plus feet in a light Oklahoma wind. Fortunately, the remaining bag in the corn-hole corner contained four red and four blue bags of appropriate weight. We were in business.

Last year, the primary competition had been Judy and me against the two hockey boys we were hosting at the time. Judy and I didn’t exactly dominate, but apparently those boys had not yet discovered their full bag-tossing potential. This year, our two new hockey boys arrived with a considerably more polished game. At least, that was the story they told us about all those graduation parties.

Frankly, I was just glad my daughter had suggested doing “something.” Saturday and Sunday, our hockey boys had scrimmages against the team we used to host hockey boys for in Texas. There were moments of potential, but they lost both games. The wins and losses weren’t really important—focus on the word “scrimmage.” What mattered was what the coach saw during their limited playing time. Our returning player played in both games. The other two are still working to earn their spots, so each had an opportunity to catch the coach’s attention.

Tuesday, the day after Labor Day, is expected to bring more cuts. The boys got a little surprise last night when the group chat told them when to arrive and reminded them to bring their suits. During the regular season, the boys are shown on the big screen wearing their suits and announcing where they are from while “Enter Sandman” plays somewhere during the pregame festivities. Apparently, junior hockey has decided that announcing a teenager’s hometown while he stands in a suit to the soundtrack of a heavy-metal song is the appropriate way to introduce players. With the possibility of cuts hanging over the house, playing a few rounds of “toss the bean bag into the little hole” seemed like a pretty good way to avoid thinking about what surprises Tuesday might bring.

Our two new hockey boys proved to be formidable competitors. Both had developed a near-frisbee approach to throwing the bags—one left-handed and one right-handed. The rest of us relied primarily on an arced approach to reaching the Ohio State-flavored boards. For the first match, I was paired with our returning player, who was also an arcer. Having been told the proper distance was 27 feet, I took nine steps between the boards. Whether nine of my steps actually equaled 27 feet is questionable. What was not questionable was that arcing a bean bag that far made me look like a very weak corn hole player. Or perhaps my muscle memory was simply more familiar with corn hole boards that were much closer together.

The frisbee throwers quickly became the favorites and showed no signs of giving up their advantage until they beat us. The next game, Judy teamed up with my daughter-in-law. Judy insisted the boards be moved closer together, which allowed them to hang around considerably longer than we had. The frisbee boys continued making a compelling case for their technique. We played about six matches over roughly 90 minutes, and honestly, it was some of the best time we have spent with our hockey boys so far. For an hour and a half, nobody was thinking about who might get cut, wondering what the coach was thinking, or worrying about who might be coming back to take someone’s spot. We were just throwing bean bags, arguing about distance, and discovering that two teenagers apparently know how to play corn hole better than the people who own the corn hole set.

Once we put everything away, we filed back into the house. Our kids had already left while Judy and I attempted to put a final hurting on the frisbee boys. The hockey boys headed upstairs to shower, while the old people headed for the first-floor shower facilities. While we watched some TV, the one boy who doesn’t have a vehicle came downstairs looking for a snack. He settled on Oreos. Judy had a full tray of brownies sitting there that we would have loved for him to eat, but knowing he had to face the coach the next morning, we decided not to make him responsible for any of the adult problems in the house.

I casually told him, “If you have any reason to get picked up early tomorrow, just let me know. I’ll be around. Ideally, you can forget about this whole conversation.” He gave me a big smile with just a little stress around the edges. He understood.

Both Judy and I have mixed emotions when cuts are imminent. We hate to lose any of our boys—at least this year, we like all of them enough to genuinely hope they stick around. But there is another side to it. If a player is going to spend the entire season on the bubble, knowing the coach doesn’t expect to play him much, sometimes the kinder solution is to cut him and let him move on to whatever comes next.

Every other day, the boys come home from practice with another example. “This guy from last year got cut from his USHL team. He’s coming back.” Or, “This guy wants to leave his Canadian team and come back to the Warriors.” If the coach has a choice between keeping a bubble player or bringing back someone who has already proven himself, it isn’t difficult to imagine which direction he is likely to go.

Our boys will always be welcome in our house. But that doesn’t mean we have to believe staying here is always the best thing for them. If the better opportunity is somewhere they can develop, play meaningful minutes, and avoid spending an entire season picking splinters out of their seats, then that gets my vote. Fortunately, I don’t get a vote. I get to be the appreciative dad—the guy who gets to watch these boys chase something they care about, provide a little food and a place to sleep, and remind them that regardless of what happens in a coach’s office, they have a home here. And, occasionally, I get to throw bean bags at them.

I am grateful I didn’t begin a hockey journey a few decades ago, when I might have had to live with old people who were this competitive about corn hole. This morning, I also decided there was no reason for me to get out of bed before 7:00. Part of that was simply because I could. The other part was that I didn’t want to risk running into the boys too early and having to say, “Good luck,” again. There are only so many times you can say “good luck” before it starts sounding less like encouragement and more like a funeral director wishing you well on your way out, so I stayed in bed. Sometimes being supportive means making yourself available when someone needs you. And sometimes it means strategically avoiding the kitchen until after 7:00.

Another Chance to Make an Impression

Yesterday was my triennial visit to the blood donation center. I just learned that word and I’m proud of it. It actually means every four months, not every three years, but “quadrennial” sounds like a made-up word and “triennial” sounds like I read something once.

The place is full of the heavily pierced and tattooed, all of us there to hand over a pint for the greater good. There’s nothing sneaky about it. Somebody out there needs blood, and in exchange, the center offers free air conditioning and snacks, which is honestly a better deal than most gyms.

I watched the self-recorded video of my visit afterward, the way you’d review game film if the game were “old man talks for ninety minutes while a machine drains him.” My conclusion: they don’t invite me back because they enjoy my company. They invite me back because I do the double red donation, and they’ve decided my blood is worth the price of listening to me.

The initial screener was the same woman from last time. I’m fairly sure we talked hockey during that visit. This time she engaged with me, but not overly, the way you’d engage with a dog that keeps bringing you the same tennis ball. I think she clocked pretty quickly that I was just a lonely old guy who’d talk the leg off anyone who made eye contact.

My blood pressure ran a little high. I blamed needle anxiety, which is a generous way of describing a lifelong hobby of mine. I also may have stretched the truth slightly on the questionnaire. If I’d mentioned our recent trip, I’d have had to list every country, in order, with exact dates in each one, and there was no chance of that. Naming them out of order and guessing at the timeline would have exposed the true state of my memory, and honestly I felt I was sparing both of us the paperwork. I hadn’t done anything else on the naughty list, so skipping the travel questions felt like the fastest route to the gurney.

Which brings me to the business end of the donor center, and my technician, who I’d also worked with before. She started off friendly. Then I kept talking, and I watched recognition arrive on her face like a slow-loading webpage. She survived the appointment. I think it cost her something.

I probably didn’t help my case by opening with “I’m your next victim.” Then I called myself a secret shopper, which didn’t confuse her so much as make her wonder if her performance that day was being quietly graded. It wasn’t. I just like watching people recalculate.

They hand you a squeeze ball while you donate, and mine came shaped like a basketball. I told her I’d have preferred a football. Turns out she agreed. “The Norman donor center gets footballs,” she said. “They have a budget for that. We just take what we’re given.” She’d made peace with it, in the way people make peace with things they complain about constantly.

For reasons known only to the blood-donation industrial complex, technicians aren’t allowed to let you watch the monitor to see what’s actually happening in your arm. Instead, there are little spinning knobs that mean things, sort of, if you squint. Double red donation is basically alchemy anyway, since what goes back into you isn’t what came out. My tech tried to walk me through which knob spins during a withdrawal and which one spins during a return. You squeeze the ball on the withdrawal, not the return, a fact I nearly learned the hard way. We got it sorted before I blew a vein, which I’m choosing to call a win.

I think I ended on a decent note. When the machine gave its final beep, I announced, “I survived another one,” and got an actual smile out of her. We never quite bonded, but I’m already workshopping better material for next time. This is apparently what passes for a hobby now.

So why do I keep doing this? There isn’t one clean answer, and not every part of the experience is the center throwing confetti and begging me to come back in sixteen weeks. But you don’t donate blood out of boredom either.

The t-shirts help. I get a new one every time, and while not all of them are “wow,” a couple have earned a permanent spot in my drawer. The latest one connects blood donation to the dog days of summer somehow. I’m apparently in my t-shirt era, though at this point I think every era of my life has just been a t-shirt era. Congratulations to me, I’m now a t-shirt connoisseur.

My cholesterol has also never been an issue, and giving blood is a nice reminder that I did pass along at least one good gene. When my kids bring up whatever genetic flaws they inherited, I remind them, “If your cholesterol’s fine, that’s me. You didn’t lose the whole lottery.”

On my way out, the front desk person, who must have missed my check-in while on break, sent me off with, “Thanks for your help on that double.” I have no idea if she actually knew that or just says it to everyone, but either way, I fell for it completely. I didn’t book my next appointment, but I’ll probably be back before Christmas to keep the friendship going, see what jokes show up on their own, and hope I don’t lose an entire vacation to “amnesia” again.

Date Night, Retirement Style

Family visits start Saturday in Columbus, and our daughter’s crew is off doing their own pre-twins celebration, which meant Judy and I had the house and no real plan for dinner. Last week’s Sam’s Club haul was gone — cooked, eaten, or handed off to kids. Nobody wanted warm-ups. So we went out.

In our defense, we barely tried to stock the fridge for these ten days between trips. We split a Costco pizza across three meals with a couple of bag salads propping it up. We got a burrito bowl from Chipotle and ate our own chips with it, which I’ve decided counts as cooking out. I also grilled some chicken. That’s real. I marinated it and everything.

We’re also deep in our post-cruise phase, which means yogurt and protein shakes for lunch, because apparently the responsible move after a week of unlimited soft serve and buffets is to eat like we’re training for something.

Before picking a restaurant, we did what any financially disciplined household does: dug through the gift card drawer. This particular card came from our hockey boy, who totaled his car on the way to practice — a gift for “going above and beyond,” which is a generous way of describing talking to a police officer before 9:00 outside a charter school. It didn’t have much left on it, but Bricktown Brewery had a happy hour hamburger special and an all-day pizza deal if we got seated before 6:00. That was all the motivation we needed to get out the door.

I tried to be an aggressive driver. Someone else tried to be an aggressive driver at me. I missed the entrance to the restaurant entirely, had to loop around at the light, and dropped Judy off to fight for our spot on the waitlist before anyone else could sneak their name in ahead of ours. Ten to fifteen minute wait, she reported. A good number. Enough to stretch the gift card to its full potential while doing penance for the opulence of our European trip.

We were seated by 5:45 and already knew our order before the menus hit the table. When the waiter asked about drinks, we let him know we’d be getting the free ones that came with the ten-dollar hamburger deal. Lemonade for both of us. I asked Judy if I was worth the extra dollar fifty for sweet potato fries. She said yes, which, if you’ve been married a couple dozen years, is code for “I love you” and also “please stop asking me this.”

I should mention that settling into the gap between trips does not bring out my best self. Judy knows this and indulges me anyway, more than she probably should.

Pizzas kept coming out of the kitchen while we sipped our lemonade, and half-priced wood-fired pizza is a genuinely hard thing to say no to. But the foil in our toaster oven was still greasy from the Costco pizza’s reign of terror, so we held the line. Barely.

The hamburgers arrived just before 6:00. Same basket, different colored fries. Ketchup was not my choice of condiment for sweet potato fries, but they were never the main event anyway. The burger was the star. Judy cut hers in half to create the illusion of restraint, then barely paused before starting on the second half. Her fries had come cold. We considered asking for new ones, but since she had no intention of eating them regardless, sending them back felt like theater. I’ve been a jerk before. Usually to family. I know my limits.

She tossed me a few of her fries before we noticed our baskets were mostly empty and flagged down the check.

Turns out the gift card only had $6.50 left on it. Judy handled payment, which has been her job ever since I developed a reputation for being stingy on tips. She’s better at that kind of math than I am — more aware, more generous. Every so often she asks me to bump it up a couple of dollars, and I don’t put up much of a fight. We both like the total to land on a round number, so a dollar or two of rounding doesn’t bother me.

By the time we got back in the car, only forty minutes had passed since we put our names down. The restaurant probably would’ve preferred we lingered over a beer or two, but they held up their end of the deal, and so did we. Judy didn’t plan on getting home in time for Wheel of Fortune, but with the food coming out that fast, it was hard to avoid.

Her word for the whole night was “efficient.” We’re both home all day — she’s working remotely, I’m on babysitting duty when it’s offered — so by dinner we’ve already said everything we need to say to each other. No chit-chat required. We’re deep into overlap territory on our list of conversation topics, and with more travel ahead, we’ll be leaning on our European stories for a while. We tell them well. People seem to think we’re funny. Really, we’re just two people who’ve rehearsed the same bits on each other enough times to have the timing down.

Efficient eaters, happiest in our own recliners. You will not find a more thrilling dinner date than us.

The End of Full-Time Grandpa (And Other Things I’m Not Supposed to Admit)

I’m going to confess something, and I need you to hear it with some grace.

When I found out Ellie’s babysitting hours were getting cut roughly in half this summer, I felt something I wasn’t entirely prepared for. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t dread. It was approximately 30% relief — and somewhere between “pleased about it” and “absolutely horrified that I’m pleased about it.”

Here’s the thing about spending the better part of eight months as a near-full-time caregiver to a tiny human: you become incredibly important. You control what she eats. What she plays with. When she sleeps. You are, functionally, the benevolent overlord of her entire world — which sounds like a power trip until you realize the overlord is also cleaning up after every snack and quietly celebrating when she naps on schedule. The point is, Ellie is my buddy, my partner in crime. My best one right now, honestly. And I’m not entirely sure I’ll find her caliber of companionship roaming around in the wild.

But she is also, for the record, almost entirely dependent on me. Which makes it a healthy grandpa relationship. Not a control thing. I want to be clear on that.

The Alibi is Gone

For the past eight months, Ellie has served a dual purpose in my life that I didn’t fully clock until just recently: she was both my greatest joy and my best excuse.

Can’t make that thing? Babysitting. Can’t get to that list? Babysitting. Skipping the world’s least urgent errand? The baby. Sorry.

It worked because it was true. My schedule wasn’t my own — it was a rolling remix of my son-in-law’s class schedule and music lesson calendar, with occasional guest appearances from “early drop-off day” and “can you just grab her a couple extra hours?” Neither of which I ever once actually minded. Love my girl. But now that the schedule is loosening, the alibi evaporates with it.

And here’s the uncomfortable thing that emerges when the alibi goes away: I have to look directly at what semi-retirement actually is. No more buffer. No more built-in structure. Just me, a calendar with some new blank space in it, and the gnawing suspicion that “semi” is becoming less defensible by the week.

The identity crisis, it turns out, keeps scheduling follow-up appointments.

So, What Now?

I have been running through the options with the seriousness they deserve, which is to say I’ve been loosely rattling them around in my head between walks and online chess games.

There’s the bucket list route — though I’ve always been a little suspicious of people who pursue bucket lists “blindly.” Life tends to edit your bucket list for you whether you ask nicely or not.

There’s the T-shirt brand idea, which sounds ridiculous until I remember I occasionally hit a genuinely funny idea in what I can only describe as an elusive zen-sarcastic state. Mugs, maybe. Something.

There’s volunteering — the classic semi-retiree move that buys you grace, purpose, and a totally legitimate reason to defer the bigger decisions until your wife retires and the two of you can figure it out together. I’m not above this plan. I’m almost in favor of it.

What I’m not doing: more crypto. More forex. More anything that requires me to hand my optimism over to an algorithm and hope for the best. I made it to semi-retirement with most of my wits intact, and I’d like to keep that streak going.

What I am doing — and this one feels right — is leaning harder into the semi-autobiographical writing I’ve been circling for a while. There’s something in there worth saying. There are stories I’ve been carrying around waiting for someone to sit down and actually write them, and lately that someone keeps making eye contact with me in the mirror.

The Part That’s Easy

Here’s what I already know, even before I figure out the rest:

I want to be the grandpa who’s down on the floor. The one who pretends to sleep and gets “rudely” awakened by a curious toddler who thinks this is the funniest game ever invented. The one who’s genuinely present — not physically in the house but mentally somewhere else drafting a passive income strategy.

I missed parts of my kids’ childhoods that I can’t go back and retrieve. That’s just honest. But I get a second pass at this — not to rewrite anything, but to actually feel what I apparently drove past too fast the first time around.

If every project I consider from here on out has to fit around that commitment — being available to my kids, being present for my grandkids, staying on the floor — then that’s not a constraint. That’s the whole architecture.

If I never find anything more valuable than that, I’ll consider it a life well-lived. Ellie didn’t know she was giving me an eight-month tutorial in how to be that grandpa. But she was. The “semi” might be fading. The purpose is getting clearer.

The Call That Postponed My Retirement

This is a further explanation of two of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Dual Format Bookworm and Spousal Support Engineer)

The phone call came two months ago, and just like that, the Summer of ’26 vanished.

It was an offer my wife couldn’t — and, logically, shouldn’t — refuse. A similar role to her current one, fully remote, better pay, working with a well-respected colleague from her past. I wasn’t in the room when she took the call. I heard about it afterward, which is probably how most husbands learn the major plot twists in their lives.

I considered a counterargument. The best I had was “I have over 6,000 books on Kindle and Audible.” Most of them were free. The rest I bought on sale, fully intending to read them immediately. That argument, it turns out, doesn’t hold much water against a high-level role with better benefits. So we pushed the goalposts. Summer of ’29 it is.

To understand why I didn’t put up more of a fight, you have to understand our roles. For 35 years, my wife has been the undisputed Bread-Winner. I’ve made several noble attempts at being a Dough-Winner, but her bread is simply better baked, more plentiful, and has a much more reliable crust.

As we navigated kids, fostering, and a move to Texas, she was the one traveling when the company called. She worked evenings and weekends to make the bosses happy, while I waved from the sidelines — or texted her from the same room to see if she remembered she had a husband. My retirement is technically rock-solid and investment-backed, but it is not the golf-and-slow-coffee variety. It is a series of Supporting Roles. I am the Head of Domestic Logistics, and my CEO just signed a three-year extension.

Here’s the part that gets me. She’ll be home. Physically present, same house, same zip code — and completely unreachable. My wife working remotely is not my wife being available. It’s my wife in a digital fortress with a closed door and four consecutive video calls.

I was hoping to pass the childcare baton this year. Instead, I’ve been re-enlisted. I am currently a specialist in diaper-related hazardous waste management — an unpaid internship with zero upward mobility, but I’m told the exposure is great. By the time 2029 rolls around, our granddaughter will be four and likely helping her mom manage two or more siblings.

Then there are the hockey boys. Another three years of work means another three seasons of high-protein breakfasts and civilized-living lessons. It’s all penciled in. As long as they like toddlers and don’t commit any sins beyond redemption, the house stays full.

So we’re staying in the wind and the Oklahoma heat a little longer. Our local kids will be here at least two more years before their academic pursuits take them elsewhere, which means delaying retirement only adds one year of real extension anyway. I participated in this decision. I agreed it was the right call. My counterargument was weak, and I knew it.

I am a reluctant retiree, but I have people — and one very small person — depending on me most days of the week. I don’t get paid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get compensated.

I’ll get to those 6,000 books eventually. I just need my wife to retire first.