Wait... It's Tuesday?

 I never know what day it is anymore.

The other day, I was happily working away in my home office when my son called to tell me his interview had gone well. My first thought was, Why in the world is he having an interview on a Saturday?

"Dude," he said. "It's Tuesday."

Apparently, I have completely lost my grip on the calendar.

I've missed appointments because I thought they were next week... only to realize they were yesterday. Where is my time going? I need to get my life together and start working toward the weekend again!

Then again, maybe not.

On Sunday night, I was busy trying to finish a project when this wonderful feeling washed over me. I didn't have to rush because I didn't have anywhere to be on Monday morning. After decades of schedules, deadlines, and responsibilities, that realization was surprisingly peaceful.

Still, I spent some time this morning filling out job applications. Who knows what I'm supposed to be doing at this stage of life? I'm still figuring that part out.

Maybe that's what retirement really is—not having every hour planned, not living for Friday, and not dreading Monday. It's learning to build a life that's meaningful without a clock telling you what comes next.

I may not always know what day it is, but maybe that's because, for the first time in my life, the days all belong to me.

I might have some Spectrum issues

There are just some things I will not do unless I’m presentable.

That doesn’t always mean full makeup, curled hair, and dressed to the nines. There are levels to this. I can go to Walmart or the grocery store in comfy clothes if they match and aren’t stained. My hair can be in a ponytail or pulled back in a cute way. But I still need at least a little makeup on. I do not leave my house completely natural. Ever.

Today, my husband wanted me to run to the bank to take care of some business. I told him I wasn’t planning on getting dressed today, which in my language means I wasn’t planning on doing my makeup or fixing my hair. I was planning on a comfy, low-maintenance day. He immediately said, “Fine, I’ll go,” because he knows I have to sit down and get ready to go to the bank.

I’m the same way about going to the doctor, having lunch with friends, or doing anything where I’m presenting myself to people in a professional setting. I need to feel put together. It’s not because I think anyone else cares. It’s because I care.

I don’t know why I’m this way. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it’s a Gen X thing. Maybe it’s because my mom raised me that way. Maybe it’s because I spent over 30 years as a professional, where I always had to be put together and represent myself and my business well. Or maybe it’s just my personality.

I’m not judging the girl in leggings, a messy bun, and an oversized T-shirt at Walmart. More power to her. I actually envy her a little. She’s free. I, on the other hand, have a whole process.

I don’t know if it’s good, bad, old-fashioned, or just plain weird. I just know it’s who I am. There are some places I can go looking comfy, and there are some places I simply won’t go unless I feel presentable.

And after all these years, I don’t think I’m changing.

Time to DEFUNK My Life

Today reminded me exactly why I retired.

People can be exhausting. Somewhere along the way, someone left the bag of idiots open. This next chapter is suppose to be about me.

I’m going to focus on my health—physically and mentally. I’m going to take better care of myself. I’m going to slow down, breathe a little, and rediscover who I am outside of work.

Right now, I still need to DEFUNK myself.

D.E.F.U.N.K.
Drop Expectations. Find Unexpected New Joy. Keep Growing.

Today was challenging for me.  One thing I’ve learned is that when something happens, there’s usually a reason. You may not know the circumstances. You may not have all the facts. But things rarely “just happen.”

There’s a reason the saying “Don’t shoot the messenger” has been around for generations. More people should practice it.

Here’s another thing I’ve learned: your attitude follows you everywhere. The future is wide open, but your opportunities can become a whole lot smaller when your attitude sucks. People remember how you treated them. Bridges are easy to burn and much harder to rebuild.

As for me, I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing my health. I’m choosing joy. I’m going to spend this season dropping expectations, finding unexpected joy, and continuing to grow.

This version of me also isn’t going to worry about ruffling your feathers. I’m done kissing ass just to keep everyone else comfortable. I’ve earned the right to speak my mind, set my boundaries, and protect my peace. If the truth ruffles your feathers, that’s a you problem.

Retirement didn’t make me quieter. It made me freer. I no longer owe anyone an explanation for living my life the way I choose. I’ll celebrate with the people who celebrate me, walk away from the drama, and invest my time in what fills my cup instead of drains it.

And if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s this: I will always stand up for the people I love.

So welcome to this new version of me. She’s healthier. She’s happier. She’s still growing. She has less tolerance for bullshit, more appreciation for peace, and absolutely no interest in pretending to be someone she’s not.

The Possum Lady and My Mom

My mother was 31 years old when she had me. Let's just say... I wasn't exactly part of the original family plan. 😂

Because of that, I grew up with an older mom than most of my friends. My brothers and sisters were so much older than I was that I had nieces and nephews before most of my friends did. In fact, while one of my friends' moms was busy having another baby, my mom was becoming a grandmother.

My family has always marched to its own timeline.

Even as a little girl, I worried about it. I knew my mom was older than everyone else's, and I was afraid I'd have to live without her long before my friends ever had to say goodbye to theirs. It wasn't something I talked about much, but it was one of those quiet fears that followed me through childhood.

My fear never really went away. As I got older, it just changed. Instead of worrying that she was older than everyone else's mom, I started realizing just how much I depended on her. She wasn't just my mother—she became the person I called first, the one who talked me off every ledge, celebrated every victory, and reminded me that somehow, everything would be okay.

When I think about everything life has thrown at me over the years, I honestly don't know how I would have made it through so many of life's hardest moments without her. She was my safe place—my sounding board, my voice of reason, and my greatest source of comfort. She could calm me down when I was overwhelmed, make me laugh when I needed it most, reassure me that I wasn't dying from whatever mysterious illness I'd convinced myself I had, and somehow always knew exactly what to say. No matter what I was facing, I never had to face it alone because I had her.

Even toward the end, she never really stopped being Mom. She still had a way of putting everyone at ease, even when we walked into her room expecting the worst.

I used to tease that Mom was the "possum lady." More than once, my sister would call and say, "I think this is it." We'd all gather ourselves, prepare for the worst, and head to see her. Then we'd walk into her room... And just like clockwork, she'd perk right up, straighten herself in the bed, flash that familiar smile, and say, "Well, hello!" You'd think she'd just been waiting for an audience.

But my sweet momma fooled us all. She lived to be 92 years old and gave me 61 wonderful years with her. Looking back now, I realize what an incredible gift that was. So many people never get that much time with their mothers.

For years, I worried that having an older mom meant I'd have less time with her. Instead, I was blessed with more than I ever dared hope for. The little girl in me was right about one thing—losing my mom would be one of the hardest things I'd ever face. She just got the timing wrong. And for that, I will be forever grateful.