By the time I was 13 years old, earning money was a big driver in my life. If I wanted cool-looking school clothes other than the standard issuance my mother was willing to order from Sears, Roebuck, and Company, I had to earn my own cash. I became the neighborhood errand girl, hairstylist, and later, when I was old enough for an employment card, I worked at venues throughout our summer community.
The example set by my hardworking parents aided in setting the gold standard for a life of productivity. Dad was a self-employed TV repairman, up everyday at 6:00 am, in his shop by 7:00, and often on a customer’s roof by 7:30 installing a TV antenna before the heat of the day made being on a roof dangerous. He worked hard everyday of his life.
Ma ran the home. Her schedule was a round robin of domestic duties she handled like a machine: dishes, laundry, dusting, furniture polishing, window and floor washing, sweeping, cooking meals, and managing the finances. Dad would call her “a one-armed paper hanger” at times.
They were busy people doing important jobs that secured a roof over our heads, food on the table, and a clean environment scented as heaven must surely smell – fresh.
Because of them, I went from being a lazy little kid to a teenager hell-bent on buying my own clothing to a woman whose every waking thought was how to be productive and earn a living.
It reached a fever pitch for me by the time my son was in school. While the jobs I held didn’t move us up the economic ladder, at least it kept the lions from the door. By the time he was in college I had achieved what I believed was the pinnacle of success – a management position in corporate America with stock options and a bonus plan.
For more than twenty-five years, I ran hard keeping pace with the pack as we expanded our market share. I learned the art of the deal from the ground up. I forged relationships with people who I otherwise might not have wished to associate. You never knew when someone might become a much needed and trusted ally, as companies were being gobbled up by investors, consolidated, and then sold. It was a marathon and I had become an elite runner.
It all fell apart during the last corporate merger. By then my brain was experiencing some over-use injuries. I was finding it more and more difficult to face each day and the harsh reality of watching the company I loved become a bit player on an acquisition assessment spreadsheet. The VP, who we appreciated and truly liked, had been beheaded and sent home with a retirement package. His departure, while long in the making, was like watching a boxer take a career-ending punch to the head. It was over.
I retired shortly thereafter. Full stop.
Well, not quite full stop. I became a consultant as my previous responsibilities were spread around to other departments in the company. It was short lived. I was a ghost haunting the corridors where once we marched in lock step scaling the quarterly goals. I didn’t have the stamina or desire to help strangers line their pockets with revenue earnings I felt others deserved. Stockholder value had lost its charm.
But sitting at home wasn’t the charm, either. I found myself looking out the window watching the cars fly by my door every day, wondering by 10 o’clock in the morning, “Is that all there is?” The novel in my lap made me feel anxious. I wasn’t able to unplug, disengage, relax. So I didn’t and I haven’t, not completely.
When asked if I am retired I say, “yes and no”. Most often it is a much younger person asking the question. There seems to be a great deal of them around me these days. With their youthful faces they give me a sweet smile before saying, “Good for you.” Good for me? It’s like a bloody pat on the head. Aren’t I supposed to be busy? Aren’t I supposed to be using my skills and experiences in productive pursuits? I think, “Oh, sweetheart, one day you’ll get it.”
The urge to be productive from morning till night is so strong in my soul that when I’m physically unable to do things, I feel guilty, or worse – non-productive. Still young enough to feel the need to contribute, but old enough to know some pursuits are out of the question.
Whether you call it relevance or usefulness, we humans must be fulfilled, productive, don’t we? I work; therefore, I am. And while I understand that what I do isn’t who I am, it is a hard mindset to manage. But, I’m working on it. In the meantime, there is the writing.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell
