RETIREMENT

A while back, I went shopping with my daughters to our favorite used book store. This was going to be fun. It was on a weekday, and I had just retired. I could be out having fun while everyone else was at work. At the bookstore, I headed toward the Agatha Christie section, and I saw the girls going in different directions (we all have our favorites, but mine are the best). When I had made my selections – it was hard to limit my choices to four books, but I was no longer getting a paycheck – I went in search of the girls.

This store is fairly large, so it took a while to look for them. Eventually, I spotted Bea. She was still shopping, and I chatted with her and the girl beside her for a few minutes, then moved on. Later, I mentioned to Bea that I hadn’t seen Ellen anywhere in the store. This was my big mistake, and I have been paying for it ever since.  Bea told me that the three of us had just been talking a few minutes before. Really? I remembered chatting with Bea and a cute little girl. I just didn’t pick up on the fact that the cute little girl was my cute little girl. The next thing I knew, I was in my doctor’s office telling my story in much greater detail than I’m giving you and getting a referral to a neurologist and an MRI appointment.

I passed all those little tests at the neurologist’s office and she said there was probably nothing wrong. But let’s just spend all your life savings on tests anyway, just to be sure.

I arrived at the MRI location and met some very helpful people there. Their first action was to just keep my credit card. Those ladies behind the desk knew they were maxing it out for me anyway. I wouldn’t have any more use for it. Then I went back to a little – very little – dressing room. Let’s change that to an undressing room. The only things I could keep on were my shoes and socks. I was given a pretty pair of blue scrubs. Unfortunately, there was only one size available that day: LARGE. Hubby could have crawled in there with me, and we could’ve square danced together; there was that much room in these scrubs. These scrubs were also designed for a seven-foot-tall person. I barely clear five feet. So I had to do a little fold-and-roll maneuver at the bottom of each pant leg. Let’s just agree that I will never appear on the cover of Vogue.

Next stop: waiting room number two. There was a man sitting in there. He eyed me up and down, grinned, and winked at me. Poor guy. He must’ve been in there for a series of tests, beginning with his eyes. This was extremely uncomfortable, and I was actually glad when the technicians came and got me.

The first question they asked me: Are you claustrophobic? Well, yeah. I don’t even like standing in an elevator. Then they helped me onto a long table. Well, why did you ask me about claustrophobia if you weren’t planning to do anything about it? They must ask this question as a form of torture. They make you hopeful, then make you get on that table anyway.

They strapped me in. I didn’t like that. This bears repeating. I DID NOT LIKE THAT. They strapped a plastic mask over my face (that once belonged to a hockey player) and put a big wedge beside each ear. I seriously didn’t like that. Then they crammed ear plugs in my ears. Do I even need to say it? Hated it. They told me not to move a muscle as they began sliding my table into a tube. I was never sure which muscle they expected me to move. The only muscles that weren’t bound were those working my eyelids. And I made the mistake of opening my eyes inside that tube.

There was a two-inch clearance over my face. Time to work those eyelid muscles and close my eyes quickly. If I had never been claustrophobic before, I certainly would have started at that time. I was beginning to understand how a hot dog feels after it has been shoved into a bun and smothered with slaw, chili, and onions.

Then the banging started. That explained those earplugs. My imagination told me that rescuers were hammering to get me out. They failed. I had to stay in there. What if there was a power failure? What if those two techs went to lunch and forgot about me? Finally, it was over, and I was allowed to leave. I ran to my car in case those two techs forgot to do something to me and tried to call me back over there.

I have some words of wisdom for you as you near retirement:

• Aging hurts your wallet as much as it hurts your joints.

• The real reason you have to retire when you are old is because you are too busy visiting doctors’ offices to get any real work done at your job.

• Concentrate when your children are around. They are watching you and waiting for you to do something crazy.

• Just don’t talk. Your children can’t catch you saying weird things if your mouth is shut.

• But retirement has its perks, especially at the grocery store:

• At the grocery store you can get a really good parking spot up close to the entrance. Why? Because you are there during working hours and the good spots aren’t taken by young employees who are busy establishing that ‘career’ and not in your way in the parking lot.

• The check-out clerks help you quickly to get you out of their store before you have a stroke and die on their watch.

• You can take your time and actually look at all the items on all the shelves in all the aisles. Now I understand that old people aren’t slow because of physical limitations. They are slow because they can finally take their time and examine things if they want to.

• You can shop in the middle of the day so you don’t have to load your car with groceries after dark in the wintertime.

But there are other benefits besides those at the store:

• You can stay up late on a weeknight to watch an old movie on TCM if you want to.

• You can sleep late the next morning and not get up before the chickens.

• You get senior discounts all over town, sadly, without even asking for them.

• Most people are afraid to ask for your help with anything strenuous.

• If you keep your mouth shut, most people will think you are extremely wise.

And, rest your fears, The MRI showed that everything was normal. Does that mean I get a refund?