Frankie

A lot of people want to retire young these days, and they’re
aggressively pursuing frugal fiscal policies or risky investment
strategies to get there faster. The problem? They’re spending so
much time plotting their path that they haven’t considered what
they’ll do when they get there. They’re racing towards the edge
of an existential crisis. Like so many before them, they’ll end up
latching onto the first hobby they find and spending directionless
days beading bracelets or making rocking horses from plywood.
More power to them, I guess.

My strategy is the opposite. I’m spending all my time planning what
I’ll do in retirement; how I’ll fritter away those winding days. I have
grand plans. (The flipside of this strategy, of course, is that I’m
yet to work out any of that fiscal stuff to get me there. I might be
putting the cart before the horse, but who wants to be right behind
a horse, anyway?)

For me, retirement starts with an expanding waistline. If I never
have to wear clothes with waistbands ever again, then my body is
free to roam. I’ll throw out any clothes in my wardrobe that aren’t
sacks or pyjamas, and stock it with loose-fitting natural fibres
that breathe, even when coated in Dorito dust.

An alarm will never again herald the start of my day. Instead, I’ll
drift slowly into consciousness before calmly rising and making

coffee. I won’t skol it on the run – I’ll sit down to drink it from one of

the mugs I made in my six-month pottery course, while I read last

week’s paper. I’ll eat breakfast at a table – a real table that’s not a

desk – basking in morning light rather than the blue wash of my

computer screen. I could take a long shower, but only if I feel like it.

There’s no need to be clean when you’re retired.

The breakfast table won’t be the only place I avoid computer screens.

I’ll banish their harsh light from my life entirely – give me a flip phone

and stolen hotel notepad and I’ll be set. The only screen I want to

see in retirement is the vast expanse at the cinema, which I’ll stare

at every single weekday morning, save for public holidays when

the hordes are out. I’ll watch 10am movies while eating popcorn

and sipping on chardonnay. I might emerge a little tipsy, popcorn

remnants scattered down my muumuu and missed shards of

choc-top across my chest, but damn, I’ll be happy.

Next up, it will be time to recline. Before retiring, I’ll invest in the

best, most comfortable armchair. Something stunning and Danish,

yet buttery and comfortable. I’ll while away the hours reading one

of the six books I’m halfway through, or work my way across the

latestTimescryptic crossword, which will be easy for me, because

I have time to become an expert. I’ll even have crossword friends

that I make crossword jokes with. Or maybe I’ll have a dog.

In the evening I may just wander through a garden – anyone’s

garden.I’ll see a nice patch of green behind a fence and walk on

in. The owner will assume I’m a lost old lady or some doddering

old fool smelling the roses. I will be both. Happily so. From there,

I’ll meander – yes, that’s how I’ll travel in retirement – to a bar

and treat myself to a martini, a little more reading and maybe

a chocolate or 10 on my stroll home for dinner and bed.

I may not have the means to leap off the working wagon yet, but

at least when I do get to retirement, I’ll be the happiest, most

prepared retiree you’ve ever witnessed powering around the

pick’n’mix cinema confectionery stand. With a grin as wide

as my denture glue will allow.

ready for retirement

CARO COOPER HAS HER POST-WORK

YEARS ALL MAPPED OUT.

Photo

Courtney Jackson

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