In the decades where I struggled with understanding husbands and raising children and losing sleep, I consoled myself with the notion that someday I would get to do the things I loved most.
Reading, writing, gardening, playing piano . . . even daydreaming. Mostly solitary activities that require quiet time, good eyesight, and manual dexterity.
It wasn’t part of a conscious plan, but these activities are amenable to old age. They don’t require constant jiggling of the joints, the latest in sport equipment, or group meetings that consume time.
Age seventy was my goal for finishing all things business-related and for segueing into my “other” life. And it seemed as if it might all work out. My job ended a few months back, and I could have turned attention to the things I love at age sixty-nine.
Instead I redid our living room. Then I volunteered for three projects. And booked various airline tickets to visit family and friends. My time filled, but not with the activities I’d imagined.
A couple days ago some internal muse reminded me that what I really wanted in my later years was to read, write, garden, play piano, and daydream. And if I continued to fill previous work hours with other things, those priorities would slip away. Someday I would regret that.
So I need to pay attention here. And I have five days left to make adjustments before I turn seventy.
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