Don’t worry. This won’t turn into a daily retirement blog. But that has been the most recent issue in my life, so that’s what you get for another few days.  This weekend I’m going to Wisconsin to hang with friends.  It’ll be bars, bags, guns, and fun.  Then I’ll turn this into a “bad decision” blog.  Anyway…

Yesterday, a friend asked how it is going. All in all – and granted, it’s been four days – it is going well. In large part, simply because of a change of mind. Permanent vacation vibes.

Retirement is easier when you actually believe you’re retired.

For the past several months, I was stuck in this weird limbo where I didn’t know where I’d be working, how long I’d be there, or whether somebody from CPS would suddenly decide I should report to a school 47 miles away because a guidance counselor’s cousin heard I once taught government.

Now I know exactly where I’m reporting every morning:

Nowhere.

And I have to admit, the commute is fantastic. I do not miss driving in Chicago traffic. At all. There hasn’t been a single moment when I’ve been sitting at home drinking coffee and thought, You know what would make this better? The Kennedy.

I also don’t miss having to be at work at 8:00, which, for me, meant being there by 7:30 because, apparently, I spent my entire working life afraid someone might catch me arriving on time.

On a morning like today, I’d already be leaving the house. Instead, I can drink another cup of coffee. Read the paper. Read the Bible. Eat breakfast. Exercise. Put something away as part of my ongoing Swedish Death Cleaning project. Look at the clock.

9:17.

Well, shit. Now what?

That is the one downside I’ve discovered. Retirement mornings are delightful. Retirement afternoons are…long.

In the morning, I get my exercise done. I read. I do whatever little tasks I’ve assigned myself to maintain the illusion that I’m a productive member of society. Then sometime around 1:30, I realize I’ve completed everything on my agenda.

I can read some more.

I can watch a movie.

I can take a nap.

I can stare at the dog until she becomes uncomfortable.

Normally, I’d go kayaking, take the dog somewhere, ride my bike, or just get outside. Unfortunately, Chicago has decided to celebrate my retirement by being approximately the temperature of Mercury’s surface. It’s been in the mid-90s, so I’m not taking the dog to the park unless I want to return home carrying her in an oven mitt.

But something else has happened that I didn’t expect.

I’ve slowed down. Literally.

When I walk to the gym to swim, I just…walk. This is new for me.

Normally, walking is simply an inefficient way to get from one thing I’m supposed to be doing to another. I walk quickly because I need to get to the gym, swim, shower, get dressed, get home, and move on to whatever comes next.

Now I amble.

I walk to the gym. I swim. I take my time getting dressed. Then I amble home. I’ve even started running farther from my house, knowing I’ll have a longer walk home afterward.

Because why not? There is nothing waiting for me. For someone who has spent most of his life rushing from one thing to another, this is surprisingly pleasant.

The other adjustment is that I’m alone a lot during the day. Yesterday after swimming, I stopped at Starbucks and sat there reading for a while. Yes, I wanted coffee. Yes, I wanted to read. But mostly I wanted to be among the humans.

I didn’t need anyone to talk to me. I just wanted confirmation that civilization was continuing while I was at home reorganizing a drawer. So I need to work on that part.

My original plan was to substitute teach a couple of days a week, which seemed perfect. I’d get out of the house, make a few bucks, interact with people, and then leave before anyone could ask me to join a committee.

Unfortunately, I quit a little too late for that. The private schools have their substitute rosters filled, and CPS apparently isn’t even hiring substitutes. (but I really didn’t want to work for CPS again anyway)

So, ironically, after spending the last few months desperately trying to escape teaching, I am now unable to teach.

Life comes at you fast.

I’ve started looking for other things. Next week I’m volunteering at a senior center where I’ll help play Bingo. I’ve volunteered there before, but back then anything in the evening came with a calculation: How tired will I be after work? How late will I get home? Is this worth giving up my precious free time?

Now? Sure. Bingo. Let’s get crazy.

I also signed up for two board-game nights at local bars. I like board games. I like bars. The only downside is going without a wingman, which isn’t exactly my favorite thing. But maybe I’ll meet some people who also enjoy board games, have a beer, and spend an evening arguing with strangers about whether I am legally allowed to place a settlement there.

Four days ago I was a high school teacher.

Next week I’m playing Bingo at a senior center and searching the Internet for other retired people. This transition is moving quickly.

There are also trips coming up. I’ll spend time at Webster, Wisconsin this weekend. October in Boston, November/December in Ohio, January in Utah, February in California, March in Banff.

Once winter arrives, I can ski during the week. And one of the nicest things about all of those things is knowing there isn’t work waiting for me afterward.

No Sunday dread. No wondering what fresh organizational insanity awaits Monday morning. No commute. No 7:30 arrival. And no feral fourth period.

That last one is important.

Whenever I start thinking, Maybe I should have kept working, I remind myself that every year there was at least one class that made me question every decision I’d made since birth.

Even at my old school, where I generally enjoyed teaching, there was always that class. You teachers know the one. The class where the bell rings and you briefly wonder if you could make a living selling plasma.

This year, my feral class was a double period.

A DOUBLE PERIOD.

So if I find myself bored at 2:15 one afternoon, sitting comfortably in my air-conditioned house wondering what to do with myself, I can always close my eyes and remember what 2:15 used to feel like.

Suddenly boredom seems pretty damn good.

I don’t know what this version of retirement will ultimately look like. I don’t even know if it is retirement. I may find another job. I may teach a college class. I may volunteer more. I may buy a little business. I may become the most feared 60-year-old board-game player on the North Side.

Or maybe I’ll just learn to be a person who doesn’t need every hour of every day filled.

That might actually be the biggest adjustment.

For most of my life, I’ve had somewhere I needed to be and something I needed to do. Now, for the first time in a very long time, I can walk slowly.

So far, I kind of like it.

And that’s the mindset shift.  I’m living for me each day.  Not in a selfish way.  I do chores at home, make my wife dinner, etc, but I’m not on anyone else’s schedule or demands.  Like I said, vacation vibes.  And knowing it’s not just a week or two but could be for the rest of my life actually makes it easier.  My life has slowed down to a speed I’m enjoying.  I don’t rush.  I don’t stress.  I don’t worry.

For one, since I was a toddler, I’ve just been living each moment and enjoying that.

As the man said, “Enjoy every sandwich”

This summer break has been pretty much everything I needed it to be.

It didn’t exactly start that way. The week before the Rockford 70.3 was stressful. I was nervous about the race, questioning my training, questioning why I do these things to myself, and generally doing all the things you’re probably not supposed to do during a taper.

Then I raced.

I had decided to treat the race as my Misogi – a challenge hard enough that I wasn’t entirely sure I could pull it off. And I did. I didn’t just finish it. I did what I wanted to do there. I challenged myself, nailed it, and walked away feeling like I’d proved whatever it was I needed to prove to myself.

And then summer really started.

Two weeks later, we went to Michigan with the family and my in-laws. There was nothing particularly exotic about it, which was exactly the point. Pool. Reading. Kayaking. Family games. Dinners together. Sitting around. Talking. Laughing.

It was wonderful.

Then I had a few weeks at home before heading west to Utah.

Usually, I’m a Point A to Point B driver. The purpose of a road trip is to get to the place where the road trip ends. This time my wife came with me, and we slowed down a little. We stopped along the way. We took our time—well, *my* version of taking our time—and actually enjoyed the trip instead of treating I-80 like a problem to be solved.

Then we had a fantastic week together in Utah.

After she flew home, my college roommate and best friend came out for another week. Between the two weeks there was kayaking, tubing, hiking, dinners, movies, a comedy club, donuts and assorted other activities that mostly revolved around the question, “What should we do today?”

For that first week, I was probably 100 percent present.

The second week? Maybe 75 percent.

Part of me was tethered to home through my wife, and part of me was tethered to the increasingly bizarre job situation waiting for me in Chicago. That’s okay. Seventy-five percent present is still pretty good. I’ve spent plenty of weeks in my life at about 12 percent.

And now everyone is gone.

I’m still in Utah. I still have the mountains. I still have the pool and the kayak and the bike and the hiking trails. I could stay longer.

But I’m ready to go home.

I’ll start driving tomorrow morning. I haven’t decided whether I’ll make it a two-day or three-day trip. I could take my time, stop somewhere interesting, enjoy the journey.

That sounds lovely.

It also sounds absolutely nothing like me.

I’ll probably get in the car, point it east and immediately begin calculating whether I can shave eleven minutes off Google Maps’ estimate.

But I’m ready.

I LOVE being out here. Utah restores something in me. The mountains, sunshine, open space and slower pace do me a tremendous amount of good.

But I’ve also realized something over these last few days.

The pool is better with my wife sitting next to me.

Kayaking is better when someone else is paddling nearby.

Hikes are better when there’s someone to talk to.

Dinner is definitely better when I’m not sitting at a table by myself scrolling through my phone.

All of these things I love – mountains, bikes, kayaks, hikes, restaurants, movies—are really just settings. The people are what make them experiences.

So the summer did exactly what I needed it to do.

I challenged myself. I rested. I read. I exercised. I spent time outside. I spent time with family. I spent time with an old friend. I laughed a lot. I ate some very good food and probably too many donuts. I spent long stretches without worrying about what I was supposed to be doing next.

I feel restored.

And maybe that’s how you know a vacation has done its job.

You don’t desperately want to stay.

You’re ready to go home.

So tomorrow I’ll point the car east toward Chicago, toward my wife, toward whatever strange adventure the job situation has waiting for me.

There will be considerably fewer mountains.

But the company will be better.

One of my favorite Korean dramas is Because This Is My First Life. The title always struck me as odd until one of the characters explains it:

“This life… is everyone’s first.”

Such a simple idea. We’ve never been this age before. We’ve never had this exact collection of experiences before. Every new chapter of life is, by definition, the first time we’ve lived it.  It’s a great way to think about life as we live it.

That’s what I was thinking about today.

I’ve never been laid off before. I know people who have. I’ve read about it. I’ve certainly imagined what it might feel like. But imagining something and experiencing it are two different things.

It’s strange. Not because I don’t know what’s next. Not because I’m panicked. Just because my brain keeps saying, “Huh… so this is what this feels like.”   We expect ourselves to have the proper emotional response to every situation, but why would we? When we’re doing something for the first time, we’re making it up as we go.

The first day of high school.

The first date.

The first child.

The first funeral of someone close to us.

The first time we watch our parents grow old.

The first layoff.

None of us has a script.

Looking back, every chapter of my life that once felt unfamiliar eventually became normal. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the new lawyer. I stopped being the new teacher. I stopped feeling like I had no idea what I was doing. This chapter will probably be the same.

Maybe that’s what I like so much about that line from the show. It reminds me to give myself a little grace.

After all, this is my first layoff.

Just like everything else in life, I’ve never been here before.

I cleaned out my classroom today.

Not much drama. A few books, some photos, my coffee mug, posters, and some other personal items.

The strange part wasn’t packing up.

It was realizing how routine the whole thing is.

Big organizations just keep moving. People come. People go. The machine rolls on.

I remember a great Onion article about a guy who returned to the restaurant where he used to work, expecting some emotional reunion, only to discover everyone basically shrugged because half the staff had turned over and nobody knew who he was. That’s life.

My school was there before I arrived seven years ago. It’ll be there after I’m gone. During my time there, plenty of teachers left. New ones arrived. Administrators changed. Students graduated. Freshmen showed up. The school kept humming along.

It was the same in the Army Reserve. New commanders. New NCOs. Different soldiers.

Same thing at the State’s Attorney’s Office. New State’s Attorneys. New assistant state’s attorneys. New investigators.

Nobody’s indispensable. The world is surprisingly good at continuing without asking our permission.

It’s a little unsettling, though.

It feels like one of those parallel-universe science fiction movies. Somewhere there’s the universe where I still teach at my school. In this universe, someone else will eventually be in my room, sitting at my desk, wondering why the previous teacher left so many paper clips.

Give it a few years and there will probably be only a handful of people there who even remember I worked there.

Oddly enough, that’s also a pretty good description of life.

The world got along just fine for billions of years before I showed up. I’ll get my little blip. A couple of generations after I’m gone, I’ll mostly be a name on a family tree. Eventually, probably not even that. Meanwhile, the planet will keep spinning, kids will keep going to school, somebody else will teach AP Government, and somebody else will inherit the office chair I left behind.

You can find that depressing if you want.

I actually find it freeing.

It reminds me not to take myself quite so seriously.

Tonight I’m going to my music lesson. Then I’ll come home, spend time with my wife, probably make myself a martini, and be grateful for another ordinary evening.

Because that’s the deal.

We don’t get forever.

We get the blip.

Might as well enjoy the hell out of it.