The “beep, beep, beep” of an Amazon truck backing up the driveway got hubby’s attention. Popping his head out of the door of his home office he asked, “Did we order something?”
“Yes, we sure did. I ordered a wall-size calendar to keep track of our schedule now that we’re retired.” Hubby’s eyes grew wide as he surveyed the calendar’s rather giant size, needed to display my overeager plans for organization. “I ordered the largest one they had. It came with a set of erasable markers in a rainbow of colors so I can color-code all of our appointments and activities. I think it will fit on this wall, don’t you?”
Smiling and shaking his head, hubby headed back into his office. He could laugh, but I knew I was right. Someone needs to keep our busy schedules in order, and that task fell to me.
I immediately set about sorting the pens and coordinating the colors with our activities. Green was for all-important golf dates, purple for social events and bright pink for time with the gals. I reserved blue for doctors’ appointments and red for our all-important shopping trips to Trader Joe's and Costco. Orange was set aside for not-to-be missed TV shows and Netflix series premiers.
An hour or so later and my task was complete. As I stepped back to admire the finished product, I realized with some amusement that many of the dates for the upcoming month were marked in blue. Neatly tagged were pre-procedure appointments for my cataract removal surgery and hubby’s hip replacement pre-surgical consultation. A week later, actual surgery dates and follow-up appointments announced themselves in shimmering lapis lazuli, followed by post-surgery appointments and physical therapy dates on Wednesdays and Fridays.
“OMG!” I exclaimed to no one in particular. There’s no room for the rest of my rainbow. This was definitely a month to handle physical ailments.
Suddenly I felt old - er. Not quite OLD in capital letters, but it did occur to me that we were definitely nearing an age when there might be more “Early Bird” dinners at our favorite restaurant and less hopping out of bed without a groan or two.
It was then that the realization dawned - we have been experiencing what the Progressive Insurance commercial humorously calls “Parentamorphosis.” We are turning into our parents.
In generations past, retirement was something to be looked forward to, if not longed for. It was seen as a time to sit, watch TV, read the newspaper, take a nap and do whatever you damn-well wanted to do. It was, at long last, the good life. In their early 80s, when my parents were in full retirement, my dad played golf and presided over weekly Lion’s Club meetings; on less busy days he sat in his recliner and did puzzles. Mom luxuriated in a bi-weekly mani/pedi and enjoyed having a housekeeper clean her house for the first time in her life. They also seemed to spend a lot of time going to doctors’ appointments for one ailment or another.
And they shopped - a lot. Like every day a lot. They shopped because they needed a loaf of bread and came home with a bagful of stuff. Whether needed or not, they purchased things at the local grocery store, shopped at a bakery outlet store for Dad’s favorite Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets and visited Costco. They would wander the Costco aisles, in search of free samples and procure large economy size packages of soda, toilet paper, snacks and other items, assuring a well-stocked larder for years to come.
I was trying not to dwell on the fact that we were starting to act like my parents when hubby popped his head around the corner to admire my handiwork. “Wow, that’s a big board and what a LOT of blue. What does that signify and where are the rest of the colors? I don’t see anything that shows when we get to take a nap.”
“Oh, I ran out of colors,” came my reply. Scheduling naps was taking this retirement thing a bit too far!
“Why don’t we go to Costco and grab a hot dog for lunch? Between the hot dogs, the free samples, and the snacks we pick up, we probably won’t be hungry this evening; and you can skip making dinner!”
Oh, why not I thought. “Let me get my purse.”
© 2025 Annie Sokoloff
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