I’m going through a tough season.
I’m turning 66, and I’m not ready to retire because I honestly like to work.
I’m a fashionista. I like putting on hose and heels with a dress to wear to the office.
I’ve been with the same organization for over 13 years and find myself at a place where my workload is minimal. This wasn’t intentional or due to some misgiving on my part. It’s a combination of changing technology making some of my work obsolete, the hiring of an additional resource five years ago that redistributed the workload, and different administrations having different priorities.
It puts me in the awkward position of trying to remain useful by volunteering for projects and support opportunities outside my department.
I’ve started looking for new employment and have had a couple of interviews for positions I wasn’t hired for. While I try not to take it personally, my mind does a postmortem of every detail.
Why did I say that? I should have mentioned—whatever. Did I say too much? Did I not ask the right questions? Why did I do that? Was it my age? Why didn’t they want me?
There it is.
Why didn’t they want me?
I know I’m a good employee. I’m smart, capable. I’m an asset with strong existing skillsets—and I still get passed over while I long for meaningful work.
That hurts.
The thing is, this essay isn’t about aging.
It’s about living with purpose.
Writing this blog has helped with that. I want more. Yes, I have more stories to tell, and I know I haven’t met my goal of two posts per week while my brain has been doing the mental gymnastics of seeking more. I know that I’m a better employee and a better person when I’m busy doing what I love.
I value my readers, and writing this makes me uncomfortable. But that vulnerability is exactly what I write about.
Two contradictory truths.
I’ve played with the numbers enough that I know retirement is possible. But for my mental health, I don’t find it plausible.
Put me in, boss. I’m ready to work.
