Retired, Rewired, and Already Tired

I’ve been officially retired according to the federal government for only ten days, and I’m already tired of this life. And I cannot see it getting any better.

It’s not that retirement snuck up on me. I had decades of advance notice.

A steady job, long hours, a payroll department dutifully withholding from every paycheck—every month a reminder that someday Uncle Sam would pat me on the head, hand me a monthly stipend, and say, “Go on now, enjoy your golden years.”

I pictured fishing, naps, reading books without falling asleep on the first page, and long drives with no destination in mind. I imagined I’d finally catch up with myself.

What they don’t tell you is that catching up with yourself is a surprisingly exhausting race. You’ve spent your life building a schedule, getting up at the same time, walking the same path, measuring your days by other people’s clocks.

When that’s all stripped away, the day yawns at you like a wide, empty parking lot. I used to complain about meetings, but now I’d give anything for one to have someone tell me where to be and what to do.

On Day One of retirement, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., like always, because the body doesn’t know what the government knows. It was a cool, dark morning, and the neighborhood was silent.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and no reason to hurry. The first hour was lovely. The second was nice. By hour three, I had cleaned out the junk drawer, reorganized the spice rack, and begun alphabetizing my old receipts. When my wife came into the kitchen at nine, I was leaning on the counter, staring at the toaster. “You’re up early,” she said. “Not really,” I told her. “I’m still on Day One.”

By Day Four, I had created a routine: I would wake up, drink coffee, stare at the ceiling, walk around the block, open the fridge, close it, and then open it again to see if anything had changed.. Retirement, I decided, is just working without pay, working at finding ways to fill time.

Everyone tells you retirement is a reward. What no one says is that it’s also a test. A test of patience. A test of imagination. A test of how long you can stand your own company without starting an argument.

The one thing saving me is my morning radio show, Monday through Friday. Without those hours on air, I think I’d lose track of what day it is—or worse, start talking back to the refrigerator. That show keeps me from unraveling completely.

On Day Five, my neighbor Larry—retired two years before me—invited me to join him for morning pickleball at the community center.

“It’ll keep you young,” he said. “Keeps the reflexes sharp.”

Pickleball, it turns out, is just tennis for people who’ve accepted they’re not as fast as they once were. The court is smaller, the ball is slower, the rules are looser.

You’d think it would be easy, but it isn’t. My reflexes weren’t just dull—they were practically on life support.

We played for forty minutes before I collapsed on a bench, gasping like a goldfish on a dock.

Larry looked as fresh as a daisy. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “After a few weeks, you’ll feel like a new man.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel like a new man. I wanted to feel like my old self, the one who could do a day’s work and still have the energy to mow the lawn.

On Day Six, I decided I needed a project. Retired people always talk about “projects.”

Build a birdhouse. Paint a fence. Write a memoir.

Something to make the hours stack up in a way that feels like a life. I went to the hardware store and bought lumber, nails, and a new hammer.

I built a birdhouse so lopsided that no self-respecting bird would move in. It looked like a condemned property.

I tried again, but the second one was worse. My wife suggested maybe the birds wouldn’t mind.

“They’re not paying rent,” she said. “They’re not picky.”

On Day Seven, I began writing a list of things to do, thinking a list would make me feel productive. “Make list” went at the top.

By the time I got to “Refill coffee” and “Check mail,” the list had already lost its luster. Retirement, I realized, is a little like being a teenager again–no money, no schedule, and an alarming amount of time to wonder what you’re supposed to do with your life.

I tried reading. I used to fantasize about days spent in a chair, a good book in one hand, a cool drink in the other.

But when you’re working, reading feels like a treat. When you’re retired, it feels like homework.

I tried napping, but naps are sweeter when stolen from a busy day. When the whole day is yours, lying down at two in the afternoon feels like giving up.

By Day Eight, I was muttering to myself. “You’re too young for this,” I said. “Find something to do.”

The houseplants were starting to look nervous. Even Buddy avoided eye contact.

On Day Nine, I returned to the hardware store to return the hammer. The clerk asked why.

“Too much responsibility,” I said.

He nodded like he’d heard it before.

That afternoon, I ran into Larry again. He was leaning on his fence, sipping lemonade. “How’s retirement treating you?” he asked.

I told him the truth. He laughed so hard he spilled lemonade on his shirt.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re just in detox. You’ve been running on other people’s schedules for decades. Takes a while to come down. You’ll find your rhythm.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because right now my rhythm feels like a funeral march.”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” he said. “Retirement isn’t the end of work. It’s the beginning of doing your own work. No bosses, no deadlines. Just you and the clock.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “Me and the clock aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Start small,” he said. “One thing a day. Write a letter. Call an old friend. Take a different route on your walk. Don’t try to fill the day. Let the day fill you.”

I thought about that for the rest of the evening. It sounded suspiciously like common sense, which I’d avoid on principle.

On Day Ten—today—I tried Larry’s advice. I woke up at 7:30 instead of 4:00.

I didn’t make a list. I didn’t build anything.

I sat on the porch with my coffee and just watched. The sun came up over the trees. A squirrel attempted a daring leap from one branch to another and missed, hanging upside down by its back feet before scrambling up again, unhurt but embarrassed.

Around noon, I called my son. We talked for an hour about nothing and everything.

By the end of the call, I felt better, not because I’d accomplished anything, but because I’d remembered something: retirement isn’t about stopping. It’s about shifting gears.

I still don’t know if I’m ready for this life. But maybe the point isn’t to know.

It could be that the point is to keep trying things until something fits—like a new pair of shoes you break in over time. Maybe retirement isn’t a prize or a punishment. Perhaps it’s just another stage, like adolescence, like parenthood, like all the other stages we bumble through until we figure them out.

I don’t have a plan yet. But tomorrow I’m going to try baking that pie. And the day after that, maybe I’ll go back to pickleball, or take a drive to nowhere in particular. The days aren’t going anywhere. I don’t have to fill them. They’ll fill me if I let them.

And who knows? Maybe one of these mornings I’ll wake up and realize I’m not tired of retirement anymore.