I love my new job

It has been a week since I started my new job. For those of you who have not been paying attention, the new job is: Full Retirement. No more part time job. No more showering and shaving every day. No more Mr. Nice. You are probably asking yourself, what's next? Are you going to morph into another grumpy old fart (like George and Lefty?) who wear the same Kohl's shorts every day because, well, who cares? Who spend the day researching the blogosphere to support your pedantic musings about how bad Obama is doing? Or who leave snarky comments on your blog?
No, faithful fans; I am not retiring to oblivion, I am retiring to Life.

Since retiring, I notice that the time goes by quickly, compared to the plodding days spent on a tedious payroll 'working for the Man', wasting valuable time sitting in snarled traffic, grinding-out your shift with snarling co-workers and growling management, watching the clock until finally fleeing to your car to escape the dreaded workplace.

I spent most of the day yesterday on a ladder, painting the South end of the house. It was long overdue, as I am sure the neighbors on that side will attest. Some of you are saying to yourself what is that dumbass thinking, going on ladders at his age? Cripes, you sound like my wife. Hey, is more risky driving on Route 128 in rush hour on the way to some hideous job than standing on a well positioned ladder with a bucket of paint.
Painting, unlike most professional work, is quite rewarding. Instead of spending an hour everyday in traffic and then 8 hrs sitting on your fat ass looking busy, then coming home and pounding-down a few scotches to feel clean again, you get to transform an unsightly panel of peeling clapboard into a freshly coated, seductively smooth surface which brings delight to the eyes.

Instead of a shuffled pile of paper forms and flowcharts, you can actually see and admire your results. No backbiting colleague can take credit for your efforts, no one criticizes your grammar or spelling. Pleasantly exhausted by your physical activity, you are rewarded for your labors by a thirst slaking Sierra Nevada, or two.
The painting of the garage invoked the spontaneous sense of victory such as might have been experienced at war's end, or at the culmination of a successful shuttle flight. There was the drama of danger (I wonder if this ladder can hold over 250lbs), new perspectives (hey, up here you can see over the fence...is that the neighbor sunbathing...topless?) the essence human conflict (should I break for a beer or finish this section?) and the agony of the feet (yikes, they are cramped and sore from standing on narrow rungs all day).

Once the job was completed, standing there, swigging my beer, I imagined a celebration in appreciation for my restrative artistic skills. Passers-by and neighbors alike, drawn from their tedious tasks, coming to admire my work, cheering and carrying me like a hero on their shoulders in delirious collective joy.

The other thing about painting is that it doesn't require a lot of brainpower. This leaves the mind free for what might be called imagination.