Chapter 3: When I am an old woman… which Golden Girl will I be?

(The answer is Maude. It’s always Maude). 

(Yes, I know her name is Bea Arthur, and she was Dorothy on the Golden Girls. But it’s my blog, and she is Maude.)

Most women know this poem:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.”

(Jenny Joseph)

Who will I be when I grow up… and grow old?

There are so many questions that fill your head in the retirement planning process - where will I live? what kind of budget can I manage? how will I fill my days (do I need to fill my days?? can I just fill my wine glass instead?). You write lists and make calculations, study the Air Canada sale flyer, and mesh together a chaotic collage of the practical and aspirational decisions that will frame your passage into retirement. 

But really, the question that actually matters, and that even the most impressive of Excel spreadsheets cannot answer for you, is who will I be in this new phase of my life? 

And what kind of old woman will I be? Vivacious? Virtuous? Cranky? (I mean, cranky is a given. Ladies, we’ve earned that one). 

I have a 70-something cousin who goes to music festivals, lives for country & western dances with her husband, and puts pink in her hair. She is my fabulous ideal - at any age. Her mum, at 94, is sharp and hilarious and ate as much pizza as I did at our last family lunch. I love these women, and would be proud to be a tenth as cool.

And then there’s Maude.

That uncompromisin', enterprisin', anything but tranquilizin',
Right on Maude! 

We have been gradually taught to recognize how bombarded we have been with simple or sexist depictions of women throughout our lives, which have certainly distorted our sense of who we should be. As a child of the late 60s/early 70s, in a house with a big TV, my influences ran from Farrah Fawcett to a million generic tv moms and far too many strangely perky tampon ladies. But we also had Mary and Rhoda and Phyllis, and Major Houlihan, and Weezie Jefferson.. and we had Maude.  Not perfect women, not unproblematic as characters, but they were complete, dimensional women. They grew and even aged a little in front of us; they took chances, made mistakes, stood up for themselves (in their way),  and told us what they thought. All the little, pie-eyed girls of that era saw that life might be filled with a lot of compromises (too many diets, bad boyfriends and a troubling number of pant suits), but ultimately, you could be the star of your own show.

And then there's... me.

Thirty-two years as a public servant, even a moderately senior one, teach you to be an excellent supporting character. While you may have certain status, a title, some influence, your role is to support the success of the Minister, the PM, the government - and the Canadian people. That is what we do.  

In retirement, that show is over. You have no one else's star to make shine - just your own. You can be glorious, ridiculous, selfish, sassy, heroic, foolhardy, frivolous, invisible - you can be any character, don any costume, wear any hat. Even one that doesn't go. 

It sounds so free - so uncompromising, enterprising - anything but tranquilizing. Thrilling drama or a wacky new adventure each week.

But mostly what it feels right now is overwhelming. When we are still those pie-eyed little girls, we are scarcely conscious of the influences we absorb or the character-defining choices that we make. The universe is limitless, and the story will never end. 

Five or six decades later, we carry the weight of our wisdom and feel the consequence of every choice. Perhaps that's why the smart women begin with a hat.

👒👒👒

Chapter 2: Breaking Up (with my career) is Hard To Do

You are simply not human (or at least not an employed human) if you don't have a secret fantasy scenario of how you might someday leave your job, and have that one big, spotlight moment as you toss off your building pass, and walk out the office door for that final time.

There's the tried and true "Take This Job and Shove It" move, which has the advantage of needing little advance planning, and is bound to be an instant classic with co-workers who may also hate their jobs. 

Glam it up a notch, and you can ride out in a Jon Bon Jovi "Blaze of Glory", which, while still burning every bridge you had to the organization, will happily involve multiple rounds of alcohol in the office kitchen nook, and a daring, swooping smooch with a Commissionaire whom you mistake for 1980's super model Kelly LeBrock. 

Others leave their jobs with confidence at a low ebb, and the tearful wail of "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me" daring the boss to finally recognize your value and beg you to stay (but the boss has skipped the farewell party, and sent an email with your name misspelled instead).

When you retire, though, there is no dramatic exit. No moment of comeuppance, flinging of government-issue iPhones or middle finger salutes. A retirement is gradual and patiently planned out. Above all, it is meant to be dignified. 

No, Jen, no! Put that flair back! As a retiree-in-waiting, you are now an esteemed Eminence Grise-roots of the department, graciously bestowing your unsolicited wisdom and witty anecdotes on the grateful masses. Until they can stand it no more. Then they have a little ceremony, toast you with tiny cups of LCBO's finest, and off you go, clutching your long-service award and whatever dry-erase markers were worth stealing from the supply room.  And yes, it is kind of dignified, in its way.

The fact is that, once you announce your retirement date, reality - or what you believed to be reality - does start to re-order itself around you, like an alternative Matrix where everyone wears sensible beige suits. Your perception of time and pressure starts to ease, while everyone around you remains in hyperdrive. They get blurry, and the precepts of their constant urgency make less and less sense. You become anachronistic to them, and to the organization, and then it is time to go. 

You can go angry, disappointed or resentful; but I think that, in the end, not that many actually do. I made a conscious decision a few years ago - when I really was mad and frustrated (a story for another time) - that this was not how I would end what has, in truth, been an extraordinary career. An extraordinary part of my life experience. And I won’t.

But I still want those kitchen drinks, and am definitely thinking about throwing the phone.

🏖🏖🏖