Started counting when she reached one thousand days to go. Every hundred days, he’d take her out for a nice dinner. Every hundred days, a celebration. French-African prison sentences have been counted down more rapidly. – JDW
January. This is the year she finally retires.
February. Only eleven months until she can retire.
“How will I stay busy?”
March. My God, don’t they realize she retires this year?
Three hundred days to go.
April. Ah, spring, sweet spring, of her retirement year.
No time to smell the flowers.
May. “I don’t know if I can make it.”
June. “I am leaving you and visiting my daughter.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
July. Independence Day will have much more meaning next year, she hopes.
Less than one hundred days to go.
August. He took her to Sedona to visit with retired friends.
Buddy’s wife has a personal trainer who comes to the house twice weekly. Manicurist, too.
Hard to afford on a pension.
September. So much work to get done before she leaves.
What will they ever do without her?
October. At her retirement party, she gave a speech about what a joy her career had been.
Some of that was true.
November. Took her to New Hampshire to visit an expert on retirement.
He makes it look easy. One formula seems to involve sub-sweaty exercise+ quiet reading + a nice lunch.
Preferably at a craft brewery.
December. Audible sigh. Watching The Young & The Restless in the middle of the day.
“This is so freakin’ nice.”