Thoughts on retirement, six months out

When Richard asked me to write something about what it felt like six months after I’d retired, I had a hard time figuring out what to write about. Strictly speaking, I don’t fit the definition, since I’m really only ‘semi-retired’ even now and still do a little work now and then.

But after thinking about it a while, I realized that the phenomenon Richard was talking about was something I’d experienced not recently when I sort-of retired, but more than 30 years ago, when I took my first extended leave from working.

I was married at the time and my wife and I decided to quit our jobs and spend nine months on the road, traveling from our home in Alaska all the way to Tierra del Fuego at the bottom of South America. We bought a VW camper, drove it as far as the Panama Canal, then hopped on a series of buses, trains, planes and collective taxis down the Pacific side of the continent, then back up the other side.

Somewhere along that journey – I don’t remember exactly where – something suddenly hit me that was very unsettling at the time. As we’d meet people along the way and describe, time after time, who we were, how we happened to be in South America, what we’d been doing in Alaska, I realized that my own conception of who I was was almost completely linked to what I did for a living.

I’d been a newspaper reporter and that had been my identity. But now I was… well, a traveler, and otherwise unemployed. I had no idea what I’d do when I got back, or how easy it would be to find work again. Meantime I had no documentation, like my old press pass, to validate my worth.

As if that weren’t enough, there was also the problem of my name. Every time we crossed a border, first into Mexico, then into Central and South America, there was always an awkward moment at the border crossing where the guard would peer into my passport and try to pronounce my official (but never used) name: Lawrence.

The name isn’t easily pronounced in Spanish and they’d always get it wrong. They’d purse their lips and frown: “Laaauuwww-rents-uh? Low-rents?” After the first couple of border crossings I finally figured out how to ease the situation: When I saw the frown beginning I’d simply smile and say “Lorenzo.”

“Ah, Lorenzo! Si!” That would loosen things up and they’d quickly stamp the visa.

After this happened a few times, I started thinking of this Lorenzo character as a sort of alter ego – still me, but a different version. Not the same as the “Larry” everybody knew me as back home, but a newer model, growing now in directions I hadn’t grown before.

Over time, both on that trip and on subsequent journeys, I came to think of this process as “unplugging” – disconnecting from the world of familiar routines and, in the process, rediscovering who you are underneath.

I think now the initial moment of unease that launches that realization – whether it’s at a border outpost or in your bathroom mirror – is a necessary passage for everyone. For me it was the beginning of something that could never have happened if I hadn’t stepped away from a regular paycheck and come face to face with the thought that who I was – who we all are – is something vastly more complicated, and interesting, than the title on a business card.

When that moment hits you – whether you’re six months into retirement or still in your 30s – savor it. You’re at the border crossing and your visa to new territory is about to be stamped.

Ed:  If you wish, you can respond to this post by writing to Larry directly at Larrym@mycomspan.com or leave a comment below.

*This article is part of what I hope will be an occasional series of posts by friends and others on their experiences with retirement. I wrote on the subject earlier here. If you have interest in contributing a post on this subject, please do. Send it to me at:  Samesty84@gmail.com.