“Sixty is the New Forty”
But We Are Told We Should Retire
I find myself at a curious juncture, the junior-senior. *
I am sure many people puzzle at this stage of life, those in their late fifties / early sixties. Not old enough for Medicare or social security, but on the cusp. Done with menopause but still dealing with lingering effects. Working, not working, or semi-employed.
I am not “middle-aged” anymore. But I don’t feel “senior,” nor do I get senior discounts in most quarters. I have seen that numeric cut off range from 55–65, but for most businesses, it is the latter.
I am asked when I am going to retire with increasing frequency. I admit I am always a little taken aback. Perhaps I am in denial about this slide into junior seniorhood.
I straddle two generations. I was born in 1961. Technically, I am a boomer (1946–1964), but I feel much more aligned with Gen X. I have little in common with a WWII baby. I view boomers as my elders. Most are long retired and enjoying their wealth, while others struggle with serious health issues, some even in nursing facilities or gone.
I relate more to Gen X, the aging hipsters. Many of us are still working our buns off and juggling multiple responsibilities. I wear black toenail polish, have the 80s and 90s taste in music and movies, and respond best to cynicism and dark humor.
I followed (without even knowing) the trends of raising chickens in the city, buying only second-hand clothes, eating vegetarian, working hard (but happily) in a non-profit, driving used cars, etc. True, I do not have a tattoo, but I purposely decided against it as they are so ubiquitous—and really, it would be an overreach in my case. (I live in Seattle, where it is almost a requirement of residency.)
I am fortunate to have friends of all ages. Some are working into their seventies. Conversely, I have friends who are not even sixty who have retired. True, most of them have a pension and/or savings, but what will they with their lives now?
I think of my dad. He did retirement right.
My father worked as an architect (which was his choice, and part-time) until he was 84. He also had colleagues who appreciated him and allowed for his schedule.
Throughout his life, Dad always asked everyone, “What’s the program?” He was a man of discipline, routine, and productivity. Lazing about with a book was not permissible (except in my mom’s case). When Dad finally left his job, he was busy every day with projects, classes, repairs, trips, chores, painting, exercising, swimming, cooking, mentoring younger folk, and meeting with friends.
Unlike my dad, I don’t have that energizer bunny metabolism; I lack his puritan drive to be constantly productive. I follow in my mother’s laissez-faire footsteps: She encouraged reading, without guilt, for hours a day and was known to procrastinate on various tasks and duties. She often imbibed sherry in the early evening. If indeed I retire anytime soon, I must be wary of these tendencies in myself.
We get mixed messages from the culture at large on the subject of age and retirement. I started receiving those AARP letters in my early 40’s, and I recycle them.
Nationally, we’ve been having recurring discussions about aging: frailty, infirmity, when old is “too old”. Two men hovering around their eighties, until recently, were vying for the most important job in the world: President of the United States.
I do not consider myself agist, but I now feel eighty is pushing it for such a critical role. (Mick Jagger can still sing and dance at eighty-one, but people’s lives don’t hang in the balance should he falter). In the case of the president, there is simply too much riding on one person’s functioning and judgment. The fate of our country and even our world is precarious if the wrong decision is made or fumbled.
In a surprise development, we now have a new candidate, and she is closer to my age. No one is asking her if she’s going to retire. She seems like a teenager compared to the other two. She’s running around campaigning, traveling, meeting with folks, fundraising, selecting her team, and developing her platform while acting as vice president, all with remarkable sharpness and agility.
Yet, for me, the polite queries from well-meaning people continue. Am I retired or going to retire soon? Do I look and act that decrepit? I am remarkably fortunate; I have very few complaints about my health. Is my memory that questionable? I think it’s quite good, considering. (I’ve never been one for details; I flunked math in 7th grade.) Of course, people with dementia do not have insight into the fact that they have dementia.
I have begun replying to this question that I am “fun employed” — a much cheerier term than unemployed — or I am “remixing” — at the moment. (I coined this term from a local DJ who, in his early sixties, is leaving his regular slot on the radio.) “Retiring” sounds too much like driving a scooter around a golf course or sitting all day in a Lazy Boy chair watching Morning Joe. Or joining a pickle-ball club. Worse yet, contemplating the move to “persistent living” facilities with chandeliers in the lobby and poorly paid, overworked staff in the background.
No, thank you!
And yet, for most, retirement is a luxury in America. Without consistent health insurance (Medicare, at the age of 65, covers some but not all medical expenses) and frugal social security payments, it is not feasible to retire without substantial assets. Additionally, the majority of people have little savings and outsized debts, compounded by the high cost of living.
I witness many older people doing physical labor or service jobs because they have no choice. Cashiers are on their feet all day. Airport bathroom attendants. Janitors. Clerks at the hardware store. Maids in hotels. Warehouse workers at Amazon. Home care aides. Hospital orderlies. Cooks and dishwashers. Landscapers. The list goes on; one just has to look around. Most of these folks will never get a break, a vacation, they can only dream of retirement. They work hard and yet barely make it from month to month, praying not to get sick. Oftentimes, they are shouldering the care of family members. The rest of us barely notice.
Conversely, hanging onto one’s job until sixty-five (when social security and Medicare kick in) can be a challenge.
Agism and discrimination are very much present, but not always in ways that are clearly identifiable. People are pressured out, downsized, laid off, or must reapply for jobs which they may have held for years. If the job is physically demanding, they may simply be unable to work at the same pace as years before, and it wears on the body. After thirty or forty years, most would prefer to have more flexibility and control over their lives.
I certainly do.
I have decades of experience as a community-based social worker, almost all of which has been with low-income elders and people with disabilities. I keep a lot to myself. The reality is that frequent exposure to trauma takes a toll. Many of my peers have suffered health challenges (both physical and mental) related to the stress of years in direct service.
For the last few years, I have juggled my job with caring for my dad, who was declining with dementia. After his death, dealing with his estate and clearing out his home, I am not working this summer. It is a relief, but I also feel kind of unmoored.
I plan to return to my job again this fall and then next year file for my retirement benefits (thank you, GOD, this is increasingly rare). I need to figure out how to live the rest of this fragile and beautiful life I have been given. Tomorrow is not promised, as they say.
My young adult children are self-sufficient (no small feat!), my major debts are out of the way, and I am finally financially secure. I have the ability to make choices now. This is luxury.
I have much to offer, and there is a lot I can do, albeit not always with the same vigor as when I was younger.
However, I am wiser and have a wealth of experience. I can roll with the punches. I don’t take much personally. I am passionate about the things I care about. Whether paid or not, I always want to engage in some type of meaningful work. If anyone will have me now. Perhaps there is a happy medium. I may have to create my own damn job, something I have never done. I know my heart; I always want to be of service.
Nope, I am in no way ready to “retire”. After all, I am still just a junior-senior.
— — — — — —
- (My friend Heidi uses this term, and I’m stealing it.)
© Margaret Kramer 2024
