Mr. Retirement

By: Carol Kehlmeier

"Who was on the phone this time?" Mr. Retirement asked, wandering into the kitchen.

Staring out the window at the low pewter clouds, I heaved a heavy sigh.

Mr. Retirement thinks he must keep tab on all my telephone calls.

it all wrong.

"It was Marg again. Wasn't it?" He asked, searching the cupboard for his potato chips.

"We're working on a church project together," I said. "We have to talk."

"That's just an excuse to gab on the phone." Crunching on a handful of chips, he exited to the TV room.

The clouds grew lower, an omen of a long winter ahead.

For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, the fragment of the wedding vows sounded in my head. "But it didn't say anything about retirement," I said to the walls.

Living with a retired husband sometimes gives one evil thoughts.

The garden season is over. He has time on his hands. He wants to reorganize the closets.

Color coding items in the closets is not a good system.

All those many years I raised four boys, cleaned house, cooked three meals a day, ran the washer and dryer into wee hours of the morning, shopped, attended PTA, school concerts, plays, art shows and teacher-parent conferences, baked bread, worked part time and took classes....I did

Since his retirement, I'm learning I could have been more efficient.

He wants to reorganize the kitchen.

I don't want to alphabetize the spices and canned goods. I don't want to plan the menu for the next six months.

I don't have time to make soap.

Hearing the sports announcer from the TV, I realized football has become my salvation.

When the kids were little I thought when they grew to adulthood time would be my ally. I would read entire novels uninterrupted.

I didn't anticipate a retired husband.

I imagined painting a work of art or discovering the secret to world peace. I thought it might be nice just to sit and stare and do nothing.

I looked forward to sleeping until 7 a.m. But that was before I had to rise early and make 10 gallons of chili for the freezer. Or peel a bushel of apples for the freezer so when Mr. Retirement had a craving for pie the apples were available.

I heard unhappy grumbles from the TV room. I assumed the Browns were not looking like winners. Then...."What's for dinner?"

Other favorite questions include, "What's for lunch?" And "Is there any bacon for breakfast tomorrow?" And "You got anything for a snack?"

But the one that really drives me up the wall is, "Where are you going and when will you be back?" Does it say anywhere I am accountable for my every minuet to Mr. Retirement?

"If you're going to the grocery, I'll go with you." He calls as I make my exit. I don't want him to go with me. It takes twice as long when he trails along.

He has to read everything on the pickle jars to make sure he's getting the pickles he likes. And he has to wander through the deli and the bakery. There might be something there he needs. Like we all need deli and bakery items. Yet, he observes me like a hawk to make sure I don't eat a cookie. Where is the logic in all of this?

I have never been concerned with expiration dates on milk cartons or soup cans because we always have used everything up immediately. Four boys gobble down everything that can't get away. Now, he has taken to buying "backups." He wants shelves filled with canned goods. "What if there's a blizzard and we can't get out to the store?" He wants to know.

"What if there's no blizzard and the expiration dates on the cans expire?" I ask him.

He only grumbles in his beard.

"If there's a blizzard you'll have to eat chili because the electricity will go off and all the chili in the freezer will melt."

It gives him something to ponder.

"Then we won't have to touch the backups," he said after some thought.

He has no idea how long it would take two people to consume 10 gallons of chili or what it would do to their digestive systems.

With no experience, he is suddenly an expert on stain removal, what to do with leftover leftovers, and how to train the cat to fetch the remote.

But he forgets where he puts his eyeglasses and can never find his car keys.

If he sees me with a cookie, he'll ask, "Should you be eating that?"

He has no idea about the chocolate I have hidden in my desk drawer to help me through these stressful times.

I sometimes feel like a captive in my own home.

I just don't know how I did it all those years managing a home and kids without his constant supervision.

I find myself wondering......when do I get to retire?

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