Coexisting

Here's the deal with retirement.  I'm around Dave.  A lot.

Truth be told, that is the one thing I was a wee bit worried about.

Yes, we've been married for um... let's see... 2017-1985=32 years.

OMG!  That's almost 1/3 of a century!

But I've never been around him so many hours at at time. 

The first few weeks of retirement went fine.  We coexisted quite well.

That is, until 4:36 PM on Monday, November 6, 2017.

I decided to work on a jigsaw puzzle.  And I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack.  Because I LOVE THAT MUSIC.

Dave was upstairs on the computer.

Admittedly, I had cranked up the volume.  And I was singing along.

"What is that????," my irritable, uncultured husband bellowed from upstairs.

"Hamilton," I declared.  Although, honestly....  Who does not recognize that amazing music?  

"That is horrendous.  It hurts my ears.  Turn it off, please."

Now.... you can insult my clothing.  And my haircut.  And certainly, my cooking.  But you have crossed the line when you insult Hamilton.

We engaged in a passionate argument about the merits of Hamilton vs. his taste in music.  Which is not good.


I even pulled my trump card.  

"When we were dating you told me you liked plays."  (I remind him of this ever few years when he complains about me dragging him to a play.)

After a few minutes I got tired of arguing so we made up.  I agreed that I would use head phones when I listen to Hamilton in the house.

But I've got news for him.  

I will certainly listen to Hamilton with my head phones on.  

But if he thought Hamilton was bad, wait until he hears me singing along.

The Disease

I am diseased.

I have a fatal disorder that is slowly killing me.  My prognosis is guarded.

The symptoms of this disease are many.  The most serious of which is loss of control of bodily parts.

It started with the skipping.  Down halls.  Into conference rooms.

And then it spread to my mouth.  Word hemorrhaging.  Things I wouldn't have said, say, six months ago.

Like when I said, "Oh, good!  We're finally forced to read a book that I actually like!" In a staff meeting.  In front of my boss.  Who I love.

Who used to like me.  Before I became afflicted with Short Timers' Disease.

I've been especially atrocious to my team.  I say things like, "I'm assigning this project to you because (uncontrolled laughter) I don't want to do it!"

And, "We'll do a follow-up analysis in October.  I mean YOU'LL do a follow-up analysis in October."  Followed by unconstrained giggling.

Short Timers' Disease.

I bring brownies to my staff meeting, put my feet up on the table and share my infamous Multicollinearity Rap on YouTube.  I hadn't intended to share.  It just happened.

Only a Short Timer would be so reckless.

Another symptom of STD is Adrenalin rushes.  They manifest themselves as I carry folders and notes to co-workers who will pick up my work.  I explain the importance of each and cross my fingers that they will find the project as intriguing as I did.

I throw away files.  Reports.  Binders.  Stuff.  And more stuff.

I dance my way to the shredding bin.

I carefully decide who gets the good stuff from my office.

Christine wants my Alien Abduction Lamp.  And the binoculars, so she can watch the Canada Goose nest next spring.  (I will miss that.)

Jeff will get my Official Tom Brady Deflategate Whoopie Cushion.  

I'll give Bettye my red blanket so she can survive the air conditioned induced winters that last 365 1/4 days a year at our campus.

Elle will receive my Barbie Doll pens and Cathy will get my "I'm silently correcting your grammar" placard.

Salem gets my fake hand because I know she will use it to scare small children.

Matthew and Max will each receive a pair of my Meat Locker Mitts.  Since neither of them is ever cold they can use the Mitts as cube artwork.

My last day is September 29, and I fear that my STD may worsen by then.  I'm thinking of bringing my unicycle to work, and finally mastering the damn bike by maneuvering through the maze of cubes with my arms outstretched.  

On my last day, when the only items remaining in my office are my Barbie Roller Blades I will probably begin to dance.  On top of said desk.

Security will likely be called to my office.

"Lou.  Get down.  It's time for you to leave," the guard will say.

I will invite the guard to dance with me.  When he says no, I will reluctantly step down, miraculously maintaining my composure.  I'll throw my purse strap over my shoulder and head out to my car, holding my head high.

Until I scream, "Wait!!!!!"

The Security Guard, who by this point will likely be annoyed with me, will say, "What, now?"

As I run back to my office I will shout over my shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere without my Barbie Roller Blades."