Recently, a friend asked me if I felt depressed about not being able to retire. She, like me, works as an independent contractor, has no retirement benefits, and no real savings. We both own homes, which can be seen as a debt more than an asset. I'm 63. She is 58. We're both professionals; she is a nurse who manages disability cases. I am an educator in private practice. We both have specialized degrees and command a decent hourly fee. You'd think that would put us both in good stead. On the other hand, we're both single, both raised our daughters on our own, and both live from month to month. Our discretionary income was never discretionary. Two incomes would have made a difference. Children are expensive. And now that my children are grown, the expenses seem to have grown, rather than diminished. How does one gracefully exit the hampster wheel without tumbling into a financial mess? 

Frankly, I had never given retirement much thought; it isn't in my realm of possibility. Nor had I ever thought of my work life as depressing. Working as a literacy specialist and writing coach has brought me joy and given me a reason to get up every morning. Of course, now that she mentioned it, my friend has me thinking about what comes next. Will I ever be able to retire? Will my dreams of travel adventures ever come to fruition? What fun it would be to see the world with a loving companion! How romantic. But with this overburdened work life, what are the odds of my meeting someone with whom I would feel comfortable enough to share my life, at home and abroad? It's a numbers game all around. Money and time, time and money. 
​

Sometimes, okay oftentimes, I think I am my best self when unattached. Back in 1974, I was standing in the vestibule of Our Lady of the Wayside church in Portola Valley, CA. My dad was holding my arm, and we were about to walk up the aisle. I was getting married. Me. I looked my dad in the eyes and said, "Tell me something funny. I've got to get to the other end of this runway." He said, "Colleen is getting married!" and cracked open this huge smile. Now, you have to know my dad. He didn't smile all that often. I smiled back at him, and knew there was truth in the joke. Not that many years before, I had sworn I would never marry, yet here I was, about to marry a very nice guy who was 12 years my senior and a Republican. Oh, sweet David. He was a good man. We couldn't stick it out, but we liked each other and remained on good terms until his death in 2001. That was the same year my dad died. It was also the year my next "husband" left my daughters and me. I had proposed several times, but Daniel repeatedly turned me down. Yeah. Did I mention I tend to be masculine in my approach to romance? It's happened time and again. I say what I want, and get asked to leave. I want equality. I want an intimate friend. I want passionate devotion to a third being... the "us" of a loving relationship. Right about now, I'm thinking that may be a moot point. My life is good, as is. I have two strong daughters, work hard at a job I love, own my townhouse, and my life is rich with friendships, male and female. Love? Well, bring it on if you've got it, but I'm not holding my breath. I've got the Jeff Beck Group, Rough and Ready, playing in the background, a glass of 2010 Bordeaux in hand, and a couple of dear friends who are texting me simultaneously from Lake Tahoe, St. Thomas, and Charlotte, North Carolina. How amazing is that?! I can't complain. Life is good... and I always kind of thought I'd be alone. 

Oh, you know what they say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Heck with that. I'm thinking maybe we could all use with a bit of pampering, now and again. Now, that would go a long way toward making me stronger. You know... a loving massage, deep conversation, excellent wine, great sex... all of that has a way of building up one's belief in something akin to "the good life." So, crutches? Well, it has slowed me down to the point of paying attention to my body. Every muscle, every movement has renewed meaning. And maybe, just maybe, it has made me stronger. Of course, I'm not going to turn down any of my "good life" requirements. I just may come at them from a different angle. Yes, being on crutches has taught me another damned Life Lesson:  I want to live now while I am still ambulatory. (And I wouldn't mind slowing down on the Life Lessons. Are you listening, Universe? Coasting through life for a little while would be a lovely gift.) 

Step thunk step thunk step
Into the life you were
Meant to experience
Just to the left of
The path you are on.
Crawl over the median
Hands and knees bloodied
But healing internally,
Whispers of strength building
Girders in forgotten bones.
Discard broken notions,
Stand tall in brave grace,
Outstretch unused arms to
Embrace strange new vistas.
Drop clumsy crutches and
Run headlong through
Brambled confusion
Till sweat washes clean
Stagnant trenches of worry.
Sweep away remorse that
Waylaid destiny,
Reclaim athletic dreams.
This life is once-given,
Run it, live it. Go ahead, 
Pitch out crutches of
Mundane existence that
Carried you through from
Day to day. Stride forward
Confidently, mindful of
Others who stand nearby
Thoughtfully watching your
Progress. Be strong for
Yourself, lead the way
Forward and on and
On, without end-game
Resignation nor
Perceived accomplishment.
Seek instead a
Path of excellent 
Beginnings renewed
Each morning as you
Venture into the
Waiting world
Again.

~ cfd

Melanoma. I know it kills, but have difficulty taking it seriously. This is my third excision - one on my left forearm, one on my shoulder blade, and one on my neck. As bits are cut away, the scars embroider memories of bikinis, sand, pools, and playful tan-lines onto my body, kind of like tattoos, but not as artistic. Then again, I've seen some tattoos that are less artistic than my stitchy-scars. On the plus-side, I have taken to naming these excisions after former boyfriends. The one on my arm is Dan. That was the scariest and really needed to go asap. The one on my neck is Kevin. He just needed to be excised. Period. And the one on my back is All of the Others. That surgery wasn't quite as serious, and neither were they. These days, I'm sporting a floppy hat and modest attire. My skin has just gone private.