When I was in 6th grade, my English teacher gave our class a creative writing exercise using an inconsequential news article as a prompt. The piece was about a stolen city bus that had been inexplicably abandoned on the outskirts of town. The police had not identified any suspects nor determined a motive for the theft.
My classmates fashioned various scenarios to explain the bus’s sojourn. They wrote stories about criminal escapades and teenage shenanigans. One inventive teen composed an elaborate narrative about aliens stealing the bus, sucking it into the innards of an extraterrestrial spacecraft, then spewing it back to earth after extracting its available information.
I had a different story to tell. In my essay, an elderly man, whose memories from decades ago were brighter than his conversations minutes before, slipped out of a nursing home and roamed the neighborhood. He stumbled onto the deserted bus, climbed in, and turned the key as the engine roared into service. The sunshine dappled onto the hood of what he remembered as a yellow and black school bus. The man drove a well-known neighborhood path, stopping at times and opening the bus’s doors to the imaginary sounds of excited schoolchildren. He nodded kindly at the memory of grateful parents relinquishing their schoolchildren into his responsible care. The rhythm and vibration of the bus cloaked him in comforting familiarity, until he was stopped by the police and returned to his anxious caregivers at the Shady Rest Home. His beloved lifetime career of driving a school bus was, at least temporarily, restored to him.
My youthful fondness, and even reverence, for the beauty of job commitment surprises me now. When I was young, work consisted of household chores, some of which I got paid for, but most of which I did not. My mother was convinced that a strong work ethic was the only thing that separated me and my brother from growing up and living in a van down by the river. During summer vacations from school, she insisted that we arise at 7:00 every morning and toil for an hour around the house cleaning, sweeping, scrubbing, or painting. When I was 16 years old, I fled chores inside the house for outside employment. My livelihood has been the supportive foundation of my existence ever since.
Several years ago, a high school classmate expressed his retirement joy and encouraged me to do that same. His voice had the urgent tone of a doctor explaining to her patient that he needed to quit smoking immediately or face dire health consequences. Friends and professional colleagues make occasional subtle comments to me as well, their well-intentioned suggestions revealing more about their choices than mine.
Many older adults are happily preoccupied by their occupations. I have yet to hear that 79-year-old Dr. Anthony Fauci should resign because of his age. Those who believe that 87-year-old Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg should relinquish her spot on the U.S. Supreme Court are motivated more by politics than belief of her incapacity. You may dislike Warren Buffet, but you must admire a wealthy 89-year-old driven and energized by his daily business pursuits.
The older I get, the fewer opinions I have about what others around me are doing. When you retire, and what you do after your exodus from the working world, is of no import. I am fascinated by people’s impetus and insight into major life decisions, but they do not influence me. I fully grasp, and identify with, the gratifying embrace of occupational commitment.
I have developed a highly sophisticated algorithm for knowing that continued professional pursuits are right for me: when I pull out of my driveway on weekday mornings with the warm aroma of coffee filling the air alongside the amusing prattle of radio talk show hosts, I feel happy. The day draws me forward with the lure of purpose, accomplishment, and engagement.
When those feelings change, I will step down without regret. Unless, of course, I have to give up coffee.