The Golden Years

• 1 • 207

Ah, retirement – the golden years. Except no one mentioned the gold was just the fillings in my teeth. The alarm clock, once my mortal enemy, now sits smugly silent. No more 7 a.m. wake-ups, but instead, a peculiar urge to rise at 6. Habits die hard, unlike my houseplants.

Day one, I joined a yoga class. Well, I signed up, at least. Thought I’d bend like a pretzel; turned out I was more of a breadstick. The dog, delighted by my newfound freedom, now expects four walks a day. I reckon he’s planning his own retirement party with all the new friends he’s made at the park.

Gone are the days of office drama and jargon. “Synergy” has been replaced with “Where did I leave my glasses?” The wardrobe, too, has undergone a radical transformation. No more suits and ties – it’s all about elasticated waistbands and comfy cardigans. Every day is a dress-down Friday.

Social life? I’ve joined a book club. We read the first chapter, then spend two hours discussing our various ailments. Yet, amidst the creaky knees and the senior moments, there’s a liberating sense of ‘no rush’. Life’s finally at a pace I can keep up with – most of the time.