by John Evans

On the surface, it was a straightforward transaction: I retired because I could. The financials, though not ideal, were good enough, the work environment was increasingly unpleasant, and I was anxious to get on to something new. Why not retire? And, having done so, why not just shut the door and move on, instead of rummaging through my actions and motivations, as though I need a stamp of approval on my choice?

Here are some facts: I’m 60, I worked 31 years for a Fortune 500 company, and for the last several of those years, I monitored my account balances and plotted my exit. My company downsized, disgorging the chosen with a generous severance package, but, to my disappointment, I was never in the right position to be paid to go away. Meanwhile, my 401(k), like so many people’s, had sagged, and my retirement date, like a wind-tossed balloon chased by a child, kept bobbing just out of reach.

My job, which I once found interesting as well as remunerative, had changed. In the final year or two, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I hated it: I unsuccessfully tried to avoid thinking about work on Sunday nights, I woke up on Monday mornings saying, “I don’t wanna go,” and the commute was a descent into dread: as the bus neared my workplace, my chest filled with the heaviness of a kid called to the principal’s office. When I walked into the building, the happy hortatory posters—The World’s Most Sought-After Financial Services Company! It Begins with Me! Dreams Start Here!—had nothing to say to me but, “Do more, do more, do more.”

Yet I kept coming back. The paycheck was only part of the reason; my career also told me who I was. I’m like most people, who, when asked “What is it you do?” will name a job: a schoolteacher, an accountant, a machinist. Few will say, “I’m a parent,” or, “I hunt and fish,” or “I praise God.” Some will answer, “I’m retired,” but I find it disquieting to define myself in terms of what I don’t do anymore.

Around 2006, with staff reduction in the wind, severance a possibility, and my finances sound enough to permit a lower-paying job, I enrolled in a community college career planning class. I wrote a narrative, summarizing the past and speculating on the future. “It’s a great thing,” I said, “to be 56 years old in the early 21st century, at the leading edge of the baby boom, and at the leading edge of reinventing retirement.” And, I thought as I wrote, building these sentences is more interesting than any job possibilities I’ve written about.

Accordingly, I decided to exercise and improve my writing—useful no matter what my future. A workplace acquaintance (by day a corporate administrator, by night a writer of romance novels) introduced me to the Loft, and I signed up for a class. On the drive home from my first class, I composed a sketch about my three-day-old granddaughter. A somewhat forced sketch, perhaps; one can debate the merits of phrases like “sleeping burrito” and “last night she was a waking hot tamale” and “cat-sized baby” and “baby-sized cats,” but, most important, it was fun. I can do this, I thought. I will do this.

Last summer, I was still working, still in the proverbial tunnel, wondering if the distant light would ever do more than flicker, when there came an unexpected catalyst: I had a disappointing job review. That wasn’t enough, in itself, to push me out the door, but I was being asked to refocus energy on my job when I was more interested in applying that energy elsewhere. Maybe, I thought, it’s time to declare my financial situation “good enough.” Even if I live to be 100, I’m not likely to look back and say, “Gee, I wish I’d worked just a little longer.” After a weekend of thinking I had almost convinced myself, my Monday morning commute clinched the deal: the closer to the office, the heavier my chest, the sturdier my determination to break free. By the time I sat at my desk, I had decided.

If life’s subcurrents were visible, that morning would have seen a neon sign above my work space flashing, “HE’S QUITTING TODAY!” There wasn’t; I had to walk around like a pouchy chipmunk concealing its horde until I met with my boss and gave him the word. He expressed surprise and asked, “Are you sure?” When he saw I was, he congratulated me—I’m quite sure he was envious—and asked how he could help.

My retirement didn’t rip the corporate fabric; whatever vacuum I left filled quickly. Within a few years, the documents I wrote will be obsolete, my coworkers will be gone, and I’ll be only a name in a personnel file. Should I have made more of a mark, left a legacy, attached my name to something? Should I have held on just a little longer? Did I bail on my beleaguered colleagues? The abruptness of my decision ensured a quiet exit; my retirement party was small, and many people didn’t know until after I was gone. I wanted it that way—in one fantasy, I’d call in and say, “I’m not coming in today; I’ve retired”—but I was still disappointed a bigger deal wasn’t made. Isn’t it true that we want to enjoy the spotlight and hide from it at the same time? We slip our modest effort onto a corner of the stage, ostensibly desiring no attention, but actually hoping someone will stumble over it, pick it up, and examine it, shaking it like a present and holding it up to reflect the light, and, with an epiphany, shout, “Good heavens, this is wonderful! Who’s responsible for this magnificence?” Then someone will catch us just before we’ve slipped out of sight, begging us to come forward and be acknowledged, while we smile bashfully.

Six months later, I’m happier than ever with my decision to retire. Yet uncertainty lingers: Did I take the easy way out? Quit when the going got tough? In escaping from a difficult situation—not in itself a censurable act—have I missed an opportunity to strengthen the qualities that will be critical when my new endeavor presents obstacles, as it inevitably will? I hope I was motivated at least as much by the desire to explore new territory as by the need to escape. When people ask me what I do now, I never say, “I’m a writer,” even though writing occupies most of my productive hours. I downplay: “I’m trying to do a little writing,” or “I’m taking a couple of writing workshops.” I wince when someone refers to “your book” or “your manuscript.” I’m reluctant to accept the pressure of expectations.

Yet the external factors are aligned in my favor: time, health, resources. Sometimes I see myself sweeping up the internal debris—the doubts, the self-questioning—and, in a satisfying act of closure, depositing it in a trash bin. That’s a distorted fantasy. The whole glorious, messy, aggravating package is coming along for the ride.

John Evans recently retired after 31 years in the Information & Technology department at Ameriprise Financial. An avid cyclist, he now rides his bicycle somewhere other than to work. He grew up in Virginia but over three and half decades has become a Minnesotan. He and his wife Joanie live in Blaine, have three children and two grandchildren, and are enthusiastic square dancers.