WHEN TO RETIRE?

I think I’ll retire one day. Question is: when? Tomorrow? Last week? Two years from now? Take this week, for example. My son and daughter-in-law are arriving for a visit this Thursday. Great. Haven’t seen them in a year if you can believe it. But who’s got the time to even really visit with them? The Advance comes out on Wednesday. By Thursday, the day of their arrival, I’m already working on next week’s paper. To keep up with the work load, I have to write over the weekend these days. Come next Monday, the day before their departure, the pressure to get out Wednesday’s paper really kicks in. And when they head back to Louisville, Kentucky, next Tuesday, deadline day, I’ll barely have time to kiss them and wave goodbye. And then it will be another year before we see them, since my wife and I have no time to take a trip to Louisville. It sounds like I’m griping, complaining, but I’m not. Thanks be to our advertisers, our readers, God, good fortune, our newspaper business is doing better than it ever was. But with that, comes an increased workload. The IRS loves us, of course, because we’re paying more taxes than ever before. But I’m starting to feel old. Maybe it’s because I turn 60 in August, which, I think, serves as a watershed moment in anyone’s life. It seems like just yesterday I was turning 30, another watershed moment. What’s next? Ninety? How fast the time flies. Probably some of it has to do with the death and illness I see taking place around me of late. One of my wife’s best friends from childhood just lost her brother to cancer. He happened to be my age, 59. To make matters worse, he had just lost his wife, 57, four months earlier. Can life be any crueler? Sure it can if you ask parents who have just lost children. Still, for the brother of my wife’s friend and his family, the statement -- “life can sure be cruel” -- certainly has a ring of truth to it right about now. You’re probably thinking, geez, I was already depressed until I started reading your column this week, Wendorf. Sorry about that. Quit reading. Switch to the Jerry Springershow. He comes on at 1 p.m. I’m sure he’s got some redneck hillbilly family on today, fighting over which cousin’s the daddy. Two women pulling out each other’s hair, while the guys stand around, both missing teeth, throwing punches at each other. And that’s another thing – depression, unhappiness. All of that – happiness vs. being unhappy, of course, barring some chemical imbalance in the brain, is within our control. If we tell ourselves to be happy, we can make it so. The power to do so is within our control. Or so I believe. I just think the older we get, the more death and illness we see around us, the harder the mental challenge becomes to force ourselves to think happy thoughts. Meanwhile, the really smart people out there are writing all the self-help books: How to be happy. I find myself being happy when I withstand the urge to plunk down good money and buy their stupid books. Thanks, but I can figure it out myself: how to be happy. One thing I’ve noticed, being happy has a lot to do with being grateful for what we have. Easier to do, of course, when you’re in good health and so are your loved ones. But every single day I wake up, I say a prayer of thanks for one more day. Thanks for what I have vs. what I don’t have. I had a guy text me last week, griping about having to listen to his mother b*tch about something he was into that was related to politics. I texted him back: “Be happy you still have yours.” That shut him up. Mine died 20 years ago at the relatively young age of 64. Every Mother’s Day still carries with it a certain ring of sadness. If I could get mine back for just one week, I’d let her spend the entire time griping, and I wouldn’t mind. That’s probably one big concern people have: will Imake it to retirement with my  good health still intact? Is all this job-related stress killing me, and I just don’t know it? My mother had plans to retire, paint full time, which she loved to do, and she was one fine painter, and then, bam, ALS slammed her into the ground, and less than two years from her original diagnosis, she was dead. On the other hand, how many people have I known who have retired in good health, and then, bam, within six months they’re dead. Talk about a cruel fate. Workhard all your life. Finally hit the  big time – retirement, where every day is a Friday, every day a holiday – and then you get sick and die before you even have time to pursue that hobby full time you’ve been dreaming of for most of your working life. I don’t know what I’m going to do. As I write, it’s 6:30 a.m. on Monday morning. I’ve been at the keyboard since 5:30. I’m already on my third cup of coffee. And yet, if I do ever retire, I know I’ll miss the newspaper business. Because even though it’s work, I like to write. I don’t necessarily enjoy some other aspects of the business, debt collection, listening to people gripe about what I did write or what I didn’t write. Dealing with screw-ups. Dealing with petty people. Of course, retirement doesn’t save one from having to deal with petty people. They’re all around. On a positive note, there are plenty of good people around as well, and even if it doesn’t seem like it so much of the time, I still think the good people outweigh the bad. It’s just that the bad seem to stand out more than the good. Part of the problem, I think, is that my wife and I need a good two-week vacation. Make it a two-month vacation to really recharge the batteries. Unfortunately, given the nature of this business, and the size of our staff, such a thing isn’t possible. And so we work on. And on, and on, and on. One morning, though, I think I’ll wake up and tell my wife, AKA, my better half, let’s sell the paper, buy a motor home, and retire. Travel the country. Drive through Canada (Mexico’s out for obvious reasons) as well. And given her level of stress -- managing the books; paying the bills; dealing with the people who don’t pay; dealing with the people who call up and say, I can’t find the invoice you sent, can you send me another; writing when she gets the chance; filling out government tax forms ad nauseam; I’m pretty sure she’ll say, how soon can we pack? When will that happen? Who knows. But I know I’m feeling older by the day. On a positive note, my son and daughter-in-law will be here this week. And that’s definitely a happy thought. And so is the fact that I’ve managed to turn out yet another weekly column, and it’s only 7:15 a.m. How many words have I written over the years? Too many to count. We’ve owned this newspaper since 1993. My parents started it in 1978. So, given almost 22 years at the helm (we took ownership of the newspaper Sept. 1, ’93), times 52 issues a year, that adds up to 1,144 copies of The Advance News Journal my wife and I have published come this Labor Day, with not one missed issue in all those intervening years. No wonder I’m tired. And I know my wife is tired. And yet, we remain thankful for all we have. Salud.