Retirement

One day I'll get to retire. Some days it feels like it can't come soon enough. And it is some time off, probably too far off to think about. But it makes me happy to fantasize about the day when labors cease and Judge Judy becomes a constant companion. Because on that day the world will move with new purpose. Birds will fly higher than they ever have and fish will lie down with sharks. Peace and tranquility will be the order of things as years stretch out in unending bliss. Days will acquire extra hours. Weeks will exist as a continuum. Calenders will become as unnecessary as shoes and electric razors.

Phrases like, "How's things?" and "Keepin' busy?" will no longer be uttered in my presence because the answers will be self evident and unchanging. They'll be "Great!" for the former, and "Yep, gotta go or I'll miss Guiding Light" for the latter. Because how can things be bad when your world is wholly and entirely your own? When you answer only to yourself, your significant other and the Must See TV lineup? When slippers and danish crumbs constitute formal wear and sunlight is something received entirely through double-paned replacement windows, if that's your desire for the day, life has reached its zenith.

C'mon 63 and a half!

Except for that part. I'd prefer to retire at 45. Thankfully, it turns out, beggars can be choosers.*


*No. No they can't. Not unless some well-entrenched publishing house decides to buy the rights to "A Year of Positives", the book. I'm willing to make a deal.