You’re filling out a form and you reach the line that asks for your occupation. Your pen starts to write the title you had for thirty years, the way it always has. Then you remember, and you write retired instead. You look at the word for a second longer than you need to. It has been two years since you left the job, and it still surprises you to be the one writing that word. Inside, you feel the same as you always have, filling out a form on an ordinary morning.
For most of your life, this part was a someday. Retirement, the whole second half of your life, all of it sat somewhere far ahead. It was going to happen, but not for a long time, and you would deal with it when you got closer. There was always going to be time to make a plan and get ready.
When you did think about it, it came as a vague, comfortable picture. Somewhere down the line you would have it together. The house sorted, a plan in place, more time and less on your plate. You trusted that version of yourself to handle everything you were not handling now.
And it stayed far ahead, right up until it didn’t. You were living inside the regular days, the work and the family and the hundred things in front of you, and the far-off future stayed right where it was. Then you looked up one day and it was not far off anymore. You were in it, and you were not sure when that happened.
