60 BPM

 I’m not sure when, if ever, I last had a resting heart rate of 60 bpm, but for the past few weeks, it’s been hovering right there. If I had a blood pressure cuff, I’d bet that’s lower, too. These are the unexpected "bennies" of retirement I didn’t see coming.

Three months in. I recently went back to my old job, ostensibly to pick up a 1095 tax form (which I did actually need), but really, I just used it as an excuse to see everyone. I didn't tell them I was coming; the surprised looks on their faces were proof that I’m still loved—mostly, or at least sort of. I realized then how much I’d missed that interaction.

I’d also been trying to coordinate a reunion with an older group of former coworkers, but setting a date is like scheduling a doctor’s appointment; everyone has to be off on the same day, and life—work, kids, etc.—usually gets in the way. Oh well. One day it’ll happen.

What I don’t miss is the bullshit. As I watched them scurrying about—serving lunch, fielding phones, and hitting that dreaded “outside line” (the universal signal for a call-out)—I realized all over again that being retired kept me from being fire-hosed with all of it.

Am I any happier? I asked myself that a few weeks in, and two months later, I’m still asking. As I thought then, it’s more about the removal of annoyances than it is about gaining 24/7 bliss. But something has changed.

I find I treat myself better now. Since I’m not required by anyone, I can finally put myself first. I didn’t realize how restrictive I was with "life’s little pleasures" while I was working. Half of that was self-imposed; the other half was the usual demands on my time. For years, I stuffed retirement accounts and denied myself "goodies," probably stupidly slitting my own wrists for the constant needs of others. Then there was the shit I couldn't control—life demanding a new CV joint in the car—the "paying the piper" we all do. I’m no Puritan, but I’m a master of self-denial and impulse control. That Protestant work ethic had me squirreling away pennies and playing "nurse" to everyone else. Others always came first.

But now...

I drink coffee, something I’ve never really done in my life. I brew a pot, settle back, and drink it screaming hot after a quick zap in the microwave. I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of just sitting and sipping. It’s a ubiquitous joy millions have known for ages, but now I finally understand what’s so great about it: having the time to sit without someone needing me. I’m a latecomer to things others have long mastered, but this time, I have the luxury of "slow-poking" through the morning with my heart thumping at a ho-hum 60 bpm.

I’ve also become a fan of German wines, thanks to a sommelier I met years ago. Before that, I never drank wine, likely because I was buying the cheap stuff without knowing better. I thought it was wild when I learned that the proof of a well-made Riesling is a faint scent of burnt rubber. The problem is that if you buy a bottle of Auslese, you’re supposed to store it for 10 or 15 years to let it develop. I’m fairly certain I’ll be dead by then, so I drink it "young." And so what? I can. What rule am I breaking? It’s another common joy I’ve come to late. At least I don’t need a 30-pack of beer a day. I’ll sip my weird Deutscher Wein in moderation; it’ll knock me out before I can cause any damage. Lucky me, I was never a booze hound.

Of course, I’ve discovered the "old age betrayal" of alcohol. As you age, your body doesn't process it like it used to, which means you get blotto faster. Is that a good thing? It certainly reminded me that I can’t drive afterward. Not that I’ve driven drunk since my 20s, back when everyone is stupid. Now, I just crash on my own bed.

In a few days, I’ll be seeding herbs indoors to plant outside in late May. I want fresh herbs; having a gallon of pesto in the freezer is a luxury I can finally pull off. A zillion years ago, I was a decent gardener. I used to turn half the backyard into a personal farm. Once established, it only takes 30 minutes a day to maintain, but you need the energy that a full-time job robs you of. In the past, I’d watch the garden get weedy and unproductive. In a few weeks, I hope to reestablish that rhythm.

Speaking of pesto, I can cook now without a gun to my head. After years in professional kitchens, you learn to time everything so tightly and efficiently that it becomes a bore. Now, not having a deadline is the ultimate plus. I actually brown my rouxs properly now; before, I’d toss in a raw roux and "cook it out" in 30 minutes as a cheat. Clarifying butter? Pffft. In the old days, where could I put it to solidify in the walk-in without a "kid" knocking it over? I can clarify at will in my one-man kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I made an authentic Béchamel at work, but I made one the other day for a Gratin Dauphinoise—sliced potatoes, cheese, thyme, garlic, and a calorie-bomb sauce. It helps to have the time to be relaxed.

And then there’s the music. I’ve been a "whore for audio tech" since I was a kid. One night, right after that blizzard in February, it was pushing midnight and I felt like listening to my system. I’m not a jerk; I didn’t blast it. I killed the lights and just sat on the couch.

Because it was late, I leaned my head back and drifted into that cat-nap state—the one I can maintain for an hour if I put in a little effort. I remember thinking, "Wow... I didn’t know that was in the song. That guitar rasp is great. Is that Stevie Nicks on backing vocals? Damn, Melissa Manchester’s 'Midnight Blue' really is that awesome." I was totally relaxed, zeroed in, with no intrusive thoughts about the next day. I haven't felt that in a long time.

I woke up at 3:30 AM. The stereo was still softly idling. I thought, "Shit, you fell asleep in your clothes on the couch again." Then I thought, "So fucking what? What law have I broken? Where do I have to be? Who do I have to impress?" I got up and went to bed.

Three months in, and the biggest change is that I treat myself better. I have the time to do things at the speed I choose. People still come to me to solve their problems, but it’s nothing like before.

My friend D—who still runs a business and is always wired tight—asked me with genuine puzzlement: “What do you DO all day?” From his perspective, my life seems alien, perhaps even driftless.

“I take all day to do whatever it is I want,” I told him.

I could see he didn’t get it. He didn’t see that the tranquility was the prize. My life might not look like I’m "producing" anything or advancing toward a goal, but he’s forgotten that living in peace is the goal. He hasn’t had that in years. It’s become a foreign language to him.