This morning I’m reflecting on an event I attended last night: my 50th high school class reunion. Gathered together were 60 sixty-somethings. (Some of us tried to change “sixty” to “sexy,” but it was hard to pull it off!) Instead we repeated “you look so good!” without adding the implied “...for your age.”
Truthfully, it was good to see everybody at approximately the same point in the race. We all know how old we are;why pretend?
I was amused at the responsibility we assumed for granting one another permission to enjoy this stage of life. Several times I overheard, or participated in, one of these conversations:
“I’m ready to do some traveling...see the world.”
“Well, you should!”
Or...
“I’m done with travel. Seen everything I want to see. Ready to watch it on the Travel Chanel.”
“I don’t blame you! Stay home and rest!”
Or...
“I want to do something funky with my dining room. Like make a light fixture out of old mattress springs!”
“Why don’t you?”
Or...
“I have a house full of furniture I’ve saved for my children, and none of them want it. I’m ready to dump it all and simplify my life!”
“And you should! Why hang on to things?”
Or...
“Where are the antique stores? I love collecting memorabilia.”
“Yes, we need to cherish the familiar.”
You get the idea. It’s like we need to give each other permission to do whatever our heart is telling us. At one time I felt challenged to do what others my age did: exercise, travel, paint a picture, take up ballroom dancing, garden, etc. Now it’s okay if some of those things simply aren’t “my thing.”
It’s okay if I want to linger in bed on Saturday morning, even when the plants need watering and the suitcase from my last weekend trip needs unpacking. When I get up and go with my husband to clean spider webs from the dock, it’s okay to come back and sit for a bit and do nothing.
When I sat to put these thoughts down on paper—that is, computer— the cat wanted to settle in my lap for a long nap. I shooed him away because he made me lazy with his warm, furry body curled into my belly and his sonorous purring lowering my blood pressure. Suddenly, I realized something. It’s easier to give someone else permission to do what they want than it is to do it to ourselves.
I’ve lived sixty-something years doing what needed to be done, meeting deadlines and others’ expectations. So now, if I want to lie on the couch for a while, blaming the cat because I haven’t checked off everything on my list, so be it.
And I’ll bet if I share this notion with one of my classmates at tonight’s function, somebody will give me permission!
Permission to Retire
