When Retirement Means the Opposite of a Bucket List

A recent retiree enjoys a gentle, satisfying and flexible schedule that leaves more time for simple pleasures

Lawrence Toppman,

AARP

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Published August 19, 2024

Illustration of man standing in body of water looking back at camera; reflection of man, trees and sky can be seen in water

Retired journalist Lawrence Toppman has embraced what Italians call "dolce far niente" — the sweetness of doing nothing.

Tara Anand

I decided as a strange little seventh grader that my life should be shaped like a bell curve. I’d be educated until I was 22, work until 66, then spend 22 years having adventures: learning languages, traveling the globe, reading great books I’d never have time for otherwise, reinventing myself in age-defying ways.

The first two phases went as planned: I got a master’s degree at 22 and left newspaper journalism at the start of the pandemic. But four years into retirement, I’ve accomplished none of the challenging goals I set as a boy. Instead, my wife and I have embraced what Italians call dolce far niente — the sweetness of doing nothing.

“Ah,” said a friend. “You’ve lowered your expectations.” No, I’ve simply adjusted my priorities.

The guy who once stroked the head of an adult lion to make him purr now sits on his front porch, watching an orb weaver build spiderwebs for Halloween decorations. The traveler to five continents looks out over two-fifths of an acre relandscaped for native birds, butterflies and bees, scrutinizing it with the eager eyes he once turned to the lava fields of Iceland and savannas of Tanzania. And I’ve never been happier.

I made the greatest discovery of my retired life the day I eliminated the word “should” from my vocabulary, at least as it applied to me. I once thought I should read all the plays of Shakespeare, but half a dozen turned out to be duds. I believed I should learn French for international travel, until I realized 400 words and 40 basic sentences would get me around Paris comfortably.

“The social whirl mostly passes my wife and me by these days, and that’s fine.”

So I’ve replaced “should” with “want to.” When I want to exercise, I take a 10-mile ride on a stationary bike with weights in my hands. When I don’t, I ignore the handlebars that point at me like accusing fingers. When I want to sit on the back patio and stare into tree-shadowed space, I confer with cardinals and chickadees with no sense of time passing.

I’m told breakfast is the most important meal of the day, people accomplish more in the morning, we ought to eat at set times and stick to sleep schedules. Nuts to that. I eat sensibly when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired, read until 4 a.m. if I can’t tear myself away from a book. (Those might be obscure novels by Herman Melville, but they’re likelier to be whodunits from the mid-20th century, the golden age of mysteries.)

The world still intrudes, with our consent. I deliver meals for Feeding Charlotte, which connects donors with local nonprofits, and I’m never late. My wife and I are Reading Buddies for elementary school children through the public library, and we’re always on time for those kids.

The garden requires almost daily watering and tending, especially during the hottest years on record, and ungrateful birds desert you when the feeders are empty or the water fountain gets too grimy for bathing. But most of our responsibilities are open-ended: We could remove that invasive grape vine from the fence today or tomorrow or the day after. Or the month after that. …

Doing what I call “nothing” didn’t come naturally to a man who spent decades cramming every waking minute with activity. When I retired, I felt as though long periods of play with our cats ought to be spent more productively. (The cats disagreed and finally converted me.)

The "aha" moment came when I started treating my cellphone as a tool, not an obligation. You can set a tool down when you don’t need it, and my phone rests on my desk downstairs for hours. Folks know I’ll check it a few times a day but don’t pick it up obsessively.

That decision inspired me to stop posting on social media. I contact close friends and family directly when I have news; the rest of the world doesn’t need to hear my opinions about politics, see photos of my vacations or read rhapsodies about rib shacks I’ve run across.

Because retired people with specific skills and infinite free time are as popular as cheerleaders on prom night, I’m often approached about volunteering. I took on a lot of work at first, thinking, Who am I to say no? But “no” is the right thing to say if you’re not getting real stimulation or satisfaction from unpaid service. Ultimately, I found a few pro bono gigs that brought pleasure, not a grudging sense of obligations fulfilled.

The social whirl mostly passes my wife and me by these days, and that’s fine. But my father still lives independently at 96. So given my dad’s age, I may have underestimated the duration of phase three of my bell curve design. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll pick up that dusty French textbook years from now and dig into those irregular verbs — but I wouldn’t bet on it.