The Art of the Title (44)

July 28th
As of yesterday, I was calling my entries by the number of days I am retired. That is just weird. When I had 43 days of school left, I was keeping a calendar on my desk (a pretty one given to me by my friend Ave) and crossing off the days. 43 days meant I still had an impossibly long list of things to accomplish. There was the scenery for the Lower School musical, an art show to curate and hang, 260 report cards to write, and classes on my schedule filled with impatient kids already thinking the school year was over. I still had to pack up an art room filled with too many supplies for a move to a new space. 43 days felt like a lifetime. 43 days felt like I was in the throes of a hectic and stressful school year, and I imagined that Day 1...the final and glorious half day of school...would never come.

As of yesterday, I reached Day 43 of my retired life. My 43 retired days squeezed in very similar activities, such as painting, tutoring, organizing supplies and moving stuff, writing as I did with my report cards, and counting the days just like I did at school. But, my 43 retired days happily flew by without having to cross off a box on a calendar with a pretty pink Sharpie. I was shocked to see the number 43 at the top of my entry yesterday. What exactly am I counting? How many days I do nothing? How many days I cook or eat out? How many days I clean the house? How many days I paint, write, or plan for my future? None of that requires a timetable. That is just called life. The only day that concerns me now is September 1. If I don't have some kind of system in place for being productive in the next month, I will anguish over the guilt. Getting there is a journey I am living. Good or bad, the journey should not be a counted on my fingers or toes.

If I were to give a title to my Penzu journal, I would call my book "How Not to Retire" with a subtitle of "No Need to Count the Days." A fun or perhaps better thought is whether I should I go back and rename every entry. The number system is not at all helpful if I go back in time to search out an essay. I need a table of contents, just as Penzu offers on the left of my computer screen, but not with numbers. You just don't talk in numbers. That is silly.

Yesterday, for example, was Day 43, a beach day. I got to cool off in the breeze, relaxing and kibbitzing with Norman and Andrea on the shores of Ocean Grove. It was a lovely way to spend a hot summer day, and not just because it was Day 43. My 43rd also brought me a much-appreciated compliment from Barbara over my blog and how that should be the vehicle to advertise my work. Thank you, big sister. And my 43rd also brought me a compliment from Daddy on my writing. He does not mince words and tells me straight out when he is not impressed. This time he was impressed. So Day 43 was a really great day in my estimation, and as a title to an essay, it does not do it justice. Now this day, my 44th, will bring Zach and Michele over for brunch, a possible conversation about wedding plans, and hopefully some creative time in my studio with Murray the portrait. My 44th sounds like a lovely Saturday. My 44th does not have to be called anything but Saturday, a glorious and exceptional weekend day in my retired life.

Tomorrow is Sunday and I hope it will also be a nice day. It doesn’t have to be remembered as the 45th day of my retirement, the 29th Sunday of the year or even the 5th Sunday of July. Let’s just hope I can just remember what day of the week it is.