No, hang on, we’re already a third of the way through October. I have no idea what the time is, and until I just checked, I wasn’t even sure what the date was. I’ve been retired for nearly ten months now.
I’m sitting here with the first beer of the day in my hand, looking out at the ocean, wondering whether I should feel guilty.
I still dream about being at work. I know they’ve moved on and have probably long since forgotten about me, but the dreams keep coming. Sometimes I look back on it all with fondness. Other times, the dreams are almost nightmares. Old habits and worries, I suppose, are not so easily left behind.
We should probably have prepared better financially for retirement, although I’m not entirely sure how we could have done that. If we’d worked for longer, I doubt it would have made a huge difference to our bank balance, but it would certainly have meant we were older before we started doing the things we’re doing now.
I can still change a wheel on a four-wheel drive, although I’m not so sure I’ll be quite as capable of doing it in five or ten years’ time. And Debbie is coping magnificently with all the challenges that have come her way. I love her so much, and I’m incredibly proud of her.
The kids and grandkids are never far from my thoughts. I’d love to be there for them, to help out and be part of their everyday lives, but the truth is they’re doing brilliantly on their own. They don’t need us hovering around, and I couldn’t be prouder of every one of them. Of course, that doesn’t stop me missing them.
So, what’s going on? Aren’t I living the dream? We’ve given up work, bought ourselves a caravan, hit the road and found ourselves sitting beside the ocean with nowhere in particular to be.
What on earth have I got to feel guilty about?
Perhaps that’s the problem. For so many years, life was about work, responsibilities, deadlines and having somewhere to be. There was always something that needed doing, someone who needed something, or a reason to get up and get on with it.
Now, we have the freedom to do what we want, when we want. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s still that nagging feeling that I ought to be doing something useful.
I guess we all crave a bit more time and space in our lives. We spend years wishing we had more of both, only to discover that when we finally get them, we’re not entirely sure what to do with them.
Maybe that’s something I need to learn. To stop feeling that every day has to be productive, that every decision has to be justified, and that enjoying the life we’ve worked so hard for is somehow something I need to earn.
For now, the ocean is out there, the beer is in my hand, Debbie is beside me, and we’re still out here doing what we set out to do.
Perhaps I should just enjoy it.
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