Someone, close to me, said this to me shortly after I’d been retrenched.
The air left my lungs (better places to go), my brain tried to crunch the words, my sense-of-self hauled out the giant “WTF?” poster.
People like me don’t retire. OK, maybe we do, officially, like when Old Mutual says we have to do something with that pension. But, really, like, retire?
I cannot see myself parked on a stoep at Twinset Haven, sipping on chamomile tea, and nibbling a digestive biscuit, brain all fudged into crystals, hair done in a neat perm, wondering if the kids or grandkids will remember it’s my birthday in three months time.
I’d much prefer to be somewhat disreputable. A disrupter. An irritation to those who think I should wilt quietly in a corner, like a sad African violet. Someone who can’t stop thinking, or imagining, or creating.
I may not have a proper job, but I’d like to think I will continue to be part of a greater whole, never still, never silent.
This is just the new phase. And it’s starting to move like a rollercoaster.