A Little Out of Order, But Still Going
No 18 of short stories
It’s easy to believe that retirement begins with freedom and joy — but what if it actually starts with confusion, emptiness, and a quiet sense of having lost something important? In this chapter, he shares how the transition from work life to retirement felt like landing in no man’s land, before the rhythm slowly returned — one notebook, one list, and one small action at a time. Rosa listens, teases, and laughs with him — as their conversation flows between trivial details and big insights about what it really means to be alive. Because maybe life isn’t about how much you do — but how present you are in what you do.
It was one of those days when nothing was urgent. A soft breeze played across the water, making the birch leaves rustle like whispering old aunties. He approached the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets and his gaze on the trees, as if searching for something he had forgotten.
Rosa was already there. As usual, sitting upright with an alert gaze, though this time she had pulled a scarf tighter around her neck.
“There you are,” she said, smiling. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d checked out of society.”
He chuckled and sat down beside her. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about today.”
“Checked out?” she asked, amused.
“Almost,” he said. “Or rather — about retirement. And how, for a while, I felt like… well, let’s say a defective item with the instructions missing.”
Rosa gave a soft laugh. “That sounds familiar. Go on.”
He took a moment before continuing, gazing out over the water as if trying to fish for the right words.
“When I stopped working, I thought freedom would be… well, liberating. But it wasn’t. Not right away. I walked straight into an emptiness I hadn’t anticipated. No more meetings to prep for, no one to lead, no emails to reply to. Just me. A coffee cup. And a very long morning.”
“You felt redundant?”
“Worse. Unused. Like one of those things you find in the back of the kitchen drawer. You know — the weird citrus juicer you got for Christmas once but never used.”
Rosa laughed again. “I have one of those. With a pattern. Beautiful, but utterly useless.”
“Exactly. I felt… retired. Not just from work, but from meaning. So I started making lists.”
“Lists?”
“Yes. Of what pensioners like. You know — trying to figure out how to fit in.”
He pulled out his phone and scrolled. “Listen to this: shopping trolleys. Ice grips. Shoe horns. Bird books. Eyeglass chains. Wine. Rolling Stones. Crochet hooks. And… slippers with rubber soles.”
Rosa leaned back and threw her arms up. “Sounds like a complete life!”
“The problem was, I didn’t want any of it. Not then. I didn’t want to learn bird species. I didn’t want ice grips. I wanted a project. I wanted to be something more than ‘the guy who retired.’”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then she asked, “And what happened then?”
“It started small. I bought a notebook. Wrote down everything I wanted to try. Nothing grand. Just little things. Like learning the names of the trees in this park. Walking new paths. Learning to bake pie. And… daring to be bored without feeling like I was failing at life.”
“You know,” he said, looking at her with a small, thoughtful smile, “you’re supposed to make time for doing absolutely nothing, too.”