When I was four years old, I got lost at Simpson Sears. Yes, Simpson Sears, which was a cultural shopping destination for middle-class suburban families in the 1960s, but was to be phased out in two parts over the next 50 years.
I grew up in Calgary and we spent over half a year in mittens in those pre-global-warming days. And so it came to pass that my tiny hand came to be holding my mom’s glove above my head, my body still forming the shape of a child holding firmly to her mother’s hand as they made their way together through the store.
The reality was that my mom’s hand had slipped from the glove, unnoticed by me, and I truly thought I was still being guided by her steady presence.
I’m not sure how long I was wandering around like that, but what I recall the most is that I wasn’t afraid at all when I discovered what was happening. I was a kid who had the amazing good fortune of never knowing an unsafe situation, so I just sort of let the moment play out.
That confidence, that whatever the current course of events I faced would come to pass, ebb and flow, and simply play out in their own way has stuck with me. And it has surely come in handy during these weeks of walking away from my career with its full-time salary and generous benefits and good office camaraderie into this retirement abyss.
I’m mostly calm about the change and the rare moments when I’m feeling slightly lost, I think of that moment in the department store and the feeling of calm.
If I was calm as a lost four-year-old, I figure, it must be a personality trait – one I’m growing more and more grateful for. Although, I do hope I look less foolish and am not bandying an empty glove overhead.
What do I feel, though? A strange urge to jog, but I’ve had that periodically in the past and if I sit on the couch long enough it passes.
Washing the floor. Baking. Odd maternal things that make me wonder if I’m feathering my nest in preparation for the increased time I will be spending in it! Yoga has taught me to believe that I am on the exact place on my path that I’m supposed to be, so I go with that.
Is there a natural response to retiring, like our response when the pandemic first struck and we all ran out to buy toilet paper? We figure these things out as we go along, I tell myself, remembering that the next phase of the pandemic (long before the anger phase) was to think of others and leave enough supplies for them. And bang pots and pans at a certain time each evening to show appreciation.
Life is strange. And it’s ever-changing. So when people ask me if I feel sad or lost as I step away from my career, I turn my eyes and my optimism firmly ahead and tell them, “I feel nothing but joy.”
Sandy Bexon is stepping into retirement after over 35 years as a communications professional, reporter and writer. She lives in Red Deer.