For Wilshire Baptist Church
“How long have you been retired?”
We were browsing in an art gallery in Saint Jo northwest of Fort Worth a few weeks ago when the manager asked that question.
“I’m not retired. Neither of us are,” I answered, probably with an edge in my voice. Granted, she and LeAnn had just been talking about retiring from the state education system, but LeAnn has built a busy new career as an early childhood and education consultant and grant writer for various nonprofits. Still, the manager looked at me and made an assumption that rubbed me the wrong way.
A few months ago I found myself listed as “retired” in the directory of a journalism alumni council I’m on. I was quick to send an email to set the record straight. I might have hit the keys extra hard as I typed out my actual employment status: freelance writer and author.
Yes, I bristle when I’m labeled “retired.” I’m not. I’m self-employed, or as some are calling it now, I’m part of the gig economy.
Musicians know all about that. They’ve called their one-night stands “gigs” for decades. For them it’s a way to cobble together a living doing what they love to do and are uniquely talented and gifted to do. The word has been adopted by the broader work force in recent years to describe people who work on short-term contracts or go from one project to the next. I know writers who’ve gigged their whole career. I was forced into it once in the 1990s when a full-time job ended, but I chose it in 2010. I was at the end of my seventh year at DART and decided it was time to get off the bus – pun intended – and be my own boss.
But for some reason when you are gigging and have graying hair, people think you are retired. Or when you are seen in the middle of the day in the middle of the week at a location where 9-to-5ers usually aren’t seen — the grocery store, the car wash, the dry cleaners — and wearing jeans and an untucked short sleeve shirt, the “retirement” label gets slapped on you.
But not so fast. Freelancers and giggers just spend their time differently – sometimes because we have to and sometimes because we can. It can be a blessing when we can break away from work and tend to family matters or schedule a vacation without asking for time off. And it can be a curse when projects end and there aren’t any others on the horizon.
I know lots of people live for retirement and the chance to kick back and maybe travel or pursue a hobby or some other lifelong dream. I have no problem with that, but my family, and LeAnn’s too, likes to keep busy and I believe we’ve both inherited those genes. My maternal grandfather worked at the local farmers mercantile store when his job as a county extension agent ended. My paternal grandfather dabbled in real estate and insurance for years after he left the newspaper business. My mother’s mother continued to practice speech pathology long after she retired. LeAnn’s mother worked at her church’s mother’s day out into her middle 90s until the pandemic hit. My father took early retirement and returned to his roots in men’s clothing sales and volunteering at the Arboretum, and my mother is busy with various civic and church groups.
And so we keep on working too, even though technically we are of retirement age. Maybe we’re in denial about that. Maybe we like to keep earning because it lets us support causes we believe in. Maybe we still like exploring, creating and contributing to the world — making our own kind of “music” as gigging musicians would say. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s spiritual. It’s probably all of the above.
A little line has crept into my rote prayer when it’s my turn to say grace at the table: “Thank you for the work you give us.” That may range from kneeling on the ground to adjust the lawnmower to writing an article for a publication to accompanying a parent to an appointment to brainstorming the characters and plot for a novel. It’s all part of the gig life, and it’s all fine with me.
So please don’t ask me how long I’ve been retired. Instead, ask me how long I plan to keep working. The answer is pretty straightforward: until I can’t.