Friends always ask me: “now that you’re no longer working, are you 

going to write more?” 

	"I have yet to live my retirement dream,” I reply to their sheer 

amazement. I have never been any busier. 

	I’m not talking of housework and yard work which I have delegated to 

others for pay; nor do I have a regular schedule for hairdo, facelifts, massage 

or nails that is yet to be established. I have missed the meticulously 

planned tours with Elderhostel that I had dreamt about. My ultimate reason   

for early withdrawal from the working class was to have time to write. I must 

have suffered from 'imagin-osis' .

	People in my circle cannot stand seeing me idle.

	“Now that you’re not working, perhaps you could help us with...” 

	God bless them and the organizations that provide me with work for

fear that I may die of boredom. In addition to volunteerism, I take on additional 

tasks to concede to requests for writing a letter, issuing a press release, 

making a telephone call to the responsible authorities, fitting a dress, putting up

a hem, cooking a pot luck meal for some fund raiser and similar assignments 

because I am a career woman that has neither given up the kitchen sink or the

computer.  I must admit that most of these additional tasks are the direct result 

of my shyness - the inability to say no.  

	Then there’s the social circle to maintain. I try to keep up with my 

responses to funerals, weddings, baptisms and showers. I want to be civil to my

e-mail friends by reading and forwarding their messages. I want to be on time

with the payment of  my bills, the grocery shopping, the filing (my nemesis) 

which is  practically never done, tax accounting on the occasional books I sell

directly to consumers, bank reconciliations and the investment portfolio even at 

its most minimal stage.  As for redressing a credit card charge error, it takes 

forever to fix it. In the process I get caught up in computer glitches that I either 

bypass, or try to fix and end up spending hours bringing the system back into 

operation. Then my ink in the printer dries up or I run out of paper.

	I forgot to mention the cold calls to fix my house. As soon as I yield 

to a patio enclosure, I get an offer for replacing my windows, fixing the lawn,

updating my air-conditioner, cutting down the trees or carpeting my house.

 Am I living in a shack? The burning food on the few occasions I cook, the 

leaking air-conditioning system in the middle of a heat wave, the parched 

houseplants that make me feel guilty, and if nothing else, the calls of my 

cockatiel for attention keep me out of the writing business. Oh yes, love takes

time when my little twerp graciously extends her neck to be scratched on the

head, tilting it in different directions to lead me to the spots that pleases

her the best. I honestly envy her. 

	I sit down to make sense of the pile of work on my desk, the 

scribbles on new chapters in my forthcoming book, notes on some internet 

research, bits and pieces of information that fly in every direction or get stuck 

with unrelated material, the dust that accumulates because my help is out in 

her home town for four months now and . . . what’s that sound? Is it the timer, 

the alarm? Which one? Fire, security, car or the neighbor’s alarm? Good 

heavens!  The sprinkler is gushing all over the patio. Where's the screwdriver? 

I didn’t need another shower today! 

 	I walk in all wet. It’s five p.m. already!