Being retired is a balancing act. You try to remember what day it is, and the date. It’s important to shave every day, especially when it doesn’t seem worth it. You brush, and floss, and get dressed. Shower, apply lotion, act as if life has some meaning. But it’s more than that, you must look to find some meaning. Even if you have to manufacture it.
I had cleaned the gutters and the leaves off the patio. A full day. I changed from my yardwork/cooking clothes to my grocery shopping clothes, popped a gummy and took off.
As I drove through the parking lot, I saw an old black man walking down the sidewalk. He was dressed in denim work clothes and wore them well. His right leg didn’t work quite right, and he rocked back and forth as he walked. His face was set in a mask of stoic determination. He leaned forward, slightly, his momentum seeming to be his whole focus, his only thought. One step forward, rock left, then right, repeat. His complicated act of motion was noble and beautiful, and moved me deeply.
It’s critical to remember the mass of humanity still goes to work, faces traffic hazards, excruciating commutes, and the unreasonable demands of employment. I remember alarm clocks, and time clocks, though it is only a distant, tolling bell, that drifts through my dreams.
Empathy drags me into the rut of daily toil. I watch people who have a job, with an odd mixture of pity and envy. Somebody relies on them, needs them, they are making a difference. Balancing the scales of survival.
There are workers, who push carts through the store, following the instructions from a small handheld device that reminds me of a Star Trek Phaser. Their job is grocery shopping for people who can’t be bothered with the tedium of going into the grocery store. It’s like Door Dash for unprepared meals. I watch them as they push the unwieldy carts through aisles, and around displays, loading gluten-free tortillas and dairy-free cheese into bags, stretched smartly between supports on either side of the cart. I admire their silent determination as they negotiate past shoppers belligerently standing their ground. I hear people complain about the rising cost of living and wonder who’s paying these people to shop for other people. I guess we’re all doing our part.
My list had three items.
Ground beef. Spanish rice. Spicy Italian sausage.
Grocery stores are huge and difficult to navigate. Experts place items in logical groups, according to type, ethnicity, or meal. As a casual shopper, none of it makes any sense. I don’t mind, I need the steps, and I like being in stores, it is a communal experience, we move through each other, around each other, dozens of ships passing in the night. It’s a religious experience, but, I’m not all that spiritual.
Since I know, approximately, where the hamburger is, and my wife had shown me the variety I wanted, I started there. It was on sale, and they had filled an “endcap” with packages. I was congratulating myself on my ability to shop. I was exulting in a small victory.
“You here again?” I heard, from the corner of my ear.
Looking over, one of the employees from the butcher department. He was smiling at me. I don’t remember having ever having seen him before. He was stocking packages of chicken parts in the cooler.
“You’re here every day, man.” He said, his smile seemed genuine, warm, and welcoming. My family is never that happy to see me.
“I have to eat.” I replied. What do you say? I thought I should probably stop taking gummies before shopping.
“Me too,” he replied, “my wife asks me when my next day off is, I ask her, ‘what’s that?” He spoke quickly, with a friendly energy that made me feel a part of something, included, a feeling I was unfamiliar with when I worked and has abandoned me completely since retirement.
“Excuse me.” It was more a demand, than a request. It was an older man, pushing past me with a sideways glare. He was wearing polyester maroon coaches’ shorts and sloppy loose knee braces sliding down onto his calves, his aviator frame glasses hung dangerously on the end of his nose. He stood face to face with the employee and was demanded to know where several items were. He held a page torn from a steno pad up to the employee’s face.
So much for the kinder, older generation, I thought. I vowed to myself patience and kindness were going to be the guiding lights that would lead me through the maze of senior citizenship.
I wondered along, finding my Spanish rice, in the ethnic food aisle, who knew? They only had sweet Italian sausage so that was a bust. There was nothing worthwhile in the clearance areas, any of them. I said hello to a few people and waved and smiled at a few babies.
I paid my dues, took my meager supply of groceries and left.
As I drove home, a song by The Animals came on Apple Music. When I Was Young.
My faith was so much stronger then
I believed in fellow man
And I was so much older then
When I was young.
I saw the old man, still hobbling along. His gait, awkward but consistent. And I said a silent prayer that God would get him home safely, and he could rest his weary bones.
During the pandemic, I learned I wasn’t the introvert I had thought, and retirement is teaching me I liked being a part of something, being on a “team.”
I’m surprised at how much I didn’t know about myself.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
