On the treadmill next to mine, a regular at my gym turned to me and said, “I usually don’t work out in the afternoon, but I had to get out of the house.”
“Why, is everything OK?” I asked.
She took a deep breath, clutched the bars, clenched her jaw and said, “Since my husband retired, his butt is glued to the recliner, his finger to the remote. Whenever I try to get him to do something with me like going antiquing, hitting balls at a driving range or taking bridge classes, he scrunches his nose as if I’d asked him to eat liver and onions. I’m losing it.”
I nodded in sympathy and said, “join the club.”
Increasing my speed and incline, I thought about my own retirement fantasies. I had pictured my husband, Charles, and I holding hands as we walked the halls of the Baltimore Museum of Art stopping to admire the Matisse collection. I had imagined us giggling when a gush of cold water splashed upon the deck of our rental boat as we sped across the Chesapeake Bay. And I could almost feel my head resting on his shoulder, as we shared a bucket of popcorn and watched the latest blockbuster.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
Charles has aged into “contentment,” a euphemism for homebody, placid, unadventurous. Even though he still works — from our home — he’s revealed his retirement hand. Because on weekends and other off days, his primary activity is reading historical fiction off his Kindle from our comfy blue living room chair. And he’s made it known that he sees no reason to change.
I’ve learned to stop asking, “What do you want to do today?”
So, he can stop answering, “Whatever you want.”
And then pooh-pooh all of my suggestions.
I’ve stopped trying to schlep my beloved curmudgeon to museums, movies and malls — they’re just not his thing. Nor would he ever create a bucket list. If he won the lottery tomorrow, he’d shore up our kids’ finances and give the remainder to charitable causes. He has no interest in circumnavigating the world on a private jet, meditating in Bhutan, or tasting wine in Napa.
I, on the other hand, am super sensitive to the passing of time. I see each day as a gift, and I’m determined to leave nothing on the table — Charles is reluctant to get up from the table. He pulls what he needs from what he already has, and in his stillness he digs deep. While in my frenzy to do it all, I skim across the surface.
Charles will point to the setting sun and say, “Come here and look at this sky.” I have to put down the latest cruise catalog to take in the pinks and blues of dusk. He’ll return from an early morning walk around the harbor with our Cavachon, Einstein, and announce, “We found a turtle!” I’ve walked around that harbor every morning for 10 years and never thought to look for sea life. He’ll talk about stories that are buried among the headlines of the local morning paper; I’ve missed them in my rush to move on to the Wall Street Journal.
Narrow and deep, or wide and shallow — neither of us has it wrong.
We just have to settle for parallel play.
Last Sunday I took a day trip to Berlin, a charming town on the Eastern Shore — by myself. I read the historical plaques, browsed the kitschy stores and savored homemade butterscotch ice-cream.
When I returned home, Charles was in the blue chair — right where I had left him. He listened to the narration of my day before asking, “what do you want to do for dinner?”
We were both happy.
Like me, Charles has fewer days in his future than in his past, and how dare I judge or dictate how he spends them. In adopting a lifestyle of parallel play, I’m not resentful; he’s not obligated. And, in his defense, he will go along with me anytime I really want him to. But I’ll hoard my chits for exotic travel.
Each night he wraps me in his arms, and I’m grateful. He will always be my friend and lover — just not my retirement playmate.
And if I get too sick of that blue chair with him in it, I can always head to the gym.
Laura Black (www.laurablack.net) is a retired attorney, businessperson, author and speaker, who focuses on the challenges of midlife-plus women with humor and affirmation. Her latest book is “Climbing Down the Ladder: A Journey to a Different Kind of Happy.”
