Retired, in Need of Intelligent Life Forms

Before I retired, I spent at least 8 hours a day at work surrounded by colleagues. Most of them bipeds. Some with opposable thumbs. A few with prefrontal cortex. One or two able to use tools. But all of them friendly and capable of communication. Now I start my day started in complete silence. 

It’s wonderful but different. Almost spooky. Today, by nine o'clock; I had checked email and admitted that it's unlikely I'll get any more surprise retirement parties. The clock hit 10, and no one had badgered me for a report, which was a good thing. On the other hand, the clock hit 10, and no one had badgered me for a report. The quiet was deafening. I decided to search for intelligent life forms to replace those I had left behind.

I started at home, letting the water drip in the kitchen sink, adjusting it till the beat was perfect for “Sergeant Pepper’s” -- in my head, the Beatles were gathered in my office while I went about editing my Linked In profile, which was soon followed by messages of congratulations (Nice going! Don't have to sit in a noisy office all day! Enjoy it!) I walked to the shopping mall and wrote while the voices of buying and selling floated around me. I stopped for a late lunch where a waitress kept asking me if I wanted more coffee. I had discovered what I'll call a state of "semi-sensory deprivation." Perfect.

When Max walked through the door after her day at work, she told me about her afternoon meeting, the snowy drive home, the idiot in the parking lot. I had another intelligent life form in the house. Some gentle noise. Good conversation. I'm finding that retirement is a lot about learning to be alone, something I thought I knew how to do but really don't. Now I'm alone -- on my own terms.