Disorientation

 

Monday – February 27, 2012 – Disorientation

To add to my sense of disorientation in time and place, the weather isn’t behaving at it normally does.  The day looked beautiful, with the sun shining in a blue, blue sky, so I thought I’d get my daily dose of exercise by walking to Trader Joe’s and back.  I didn’t wear a heavy coat, but temperatures were so high that I was sweating in my sweatshirt.  The crocuses were deliriously proclaiming spring across the still scruffy winter-worn lawns.  Daffodils were waving in the light breeze.  This type of February weather would feel more at home in Fayence than in Fairfax.  I remember slipping into a ski jacket for an early morning walk down to the bakery and the marketplace.  Then by mid-day, we’d be sitting out on our terrace for lunch.  But that was more than twenty years ago in the South of France, not here and now in northern Virginia. 

I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of my life, not quite ready to plunge back in.  I don’t even feel like I know myself anymore. Maybe it’s entirely normal to go through a retirement-related identity crisis.  Retire, reflect, re-evaluate, redefine?  I suppose I could avoid dealing with the problem by begging for old job back – ha! – not a chance.  Or I could “solve” the problem temporarily by filling up my time and pushing all of the issues below the surface.  But I think it’s important for me to grapple with this now, for however long it takes.  I have to be very mindful of the choices before me and I want to make decisions thoughtfully, rather than just falling into them. Transitions are inherently unsettling – and lonely, too.  It’s hard to share this with Elliott.  He isn’t going through the abrupt changes that I’m experiencing.  He hasn’t just given up a job he loves, and all of the social contacts that go along with it. 

Fortunately, Elliott has already become Mr. Taxman, an identity he’ll retain until mid-April.  During this period, he’ll be so obsessed with income tax returns that he will leave me plenty of time for solitude and reflection.  As soon as we got back from Florida, he commandeered the dining room table.  I knew better than to suggest that he work at his desk, which is hidden somewhere under a mound of papers.  It happens this way every year.