On the surface, it was a straightforward transaction: I retired because I could. The financials, though not ideal, were good enough, the work environment was increasingly unpleasant, and I was anxious to get on to something new. Why not retire? And, having done so, why not just shut the door and move on, instead of rummaging through my actions and motivations, as though I need a stamp of approval on my choice?

Here are some facts: I’m 60, I worked 31 years for a Fortune 500 company, and for the last several of those years, I monitored my account balances and plotted my exit. My company downsized, disgorging the chosen with a generous severance package, but, to my disappointment, I was never in the right position to be paid to go away. Meanwhile, my 401(k), like so many people’s, had sagged, and my retirement date, like a wind-tossed balloon chased by a child, kept bobbing just out of reach.

My job, which I once found interesting as well as remunerative, had changed. In the final year or two, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I hated it: I unsuccessfully tried to avoid thinking about work on Sunday nights, I woke up on Monday mornings saying, “I don’t wanna go,” and the commute was a descent into dread: as the bus neared my workplace, my chest filled with the heaviness of a kid called to the principal’s office. When I walked into the building, the happy hortatory posters—The World's Most Sought-After Financial Services Company! It Begins with Me! Dreams Start Here!—had nothing to say to me but, “Do more, do more, do more.” 

Yet I kept coming back. The paycheck was only part of the reason; my career also told me who I was. I’m like most people, who, when asked “What is it you do?” will name a job: a schoolteacher, an accountant, a machinist. Few will say, “I’m a parent,” or, “I hunt and fish,” or “I praise God.” Some will answer, “I’m retired,” but I find it disquieting to define myself in terms of what I don’t do anymore.

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