I know, I know…you’re thinking my math is a little fuzzy. It’s not the word itself that’s causing all this $!&* in my head. It’s the process of filling out forms and getting numbers and going to a notary to make it all legal.
It’s the 21st century. Shouldn’t it be easier to claim a pension after years of labor? I guess that’s not the point. The money was promised to me. Ease of obtaining the money, not so much.
The truth is I am surprisingly grateful. Pensions are a small hedge against the world’s expenses. They don’t generally add up to much; my soon-to-be state pension is basically grocery money for The Better Half and I, with a little left over for a coffee date, when he can make time between motorsports-watching on TV. And when you consider how many people don’t retire with anything to count on except Social Security and whatever savings they have, it’s a blessing. And direct deposit means the money arrives safely and on time at the bank, rather than in my spendy little hands (or lost at the hands of our postal carrier, AKA Bad Santa, who does not understand that two houses in a development with the same number, can be located on different streets and NOT be the same place).
I don’t plan to retire from work entirely in the near future. I think there’s a future in the writing world for me, and as long as people pay me for freelance, I plan to keep going. I have bad habits to support, like gourmet food, needy pets, needy pets who like gourmet food, the whole triathlon gear addiction and competition fees and travel costs. Living the game of life means having to pay to use its toll roads and doing the maintenance and repairs when needed. The price you pay is worth the ability to play on.
Old Is Serious...Aging Is Hilarious 