COLUMN: Retirement

I'm not sure I can write a column this week, folks. I've been a little traumatized. Besides, given my advanced age, I'm not sure I have the strength or fortitude to type this entire thing before I'm all tuckered out and need my rest.

Let's put what happened to me in the correct perspective:

I woke up last Saturday in a good mood, feeling refreshed and eager for life. Having no DJ gig the night prior, I actually managed to get a rare and full eight hours of sleep. I made a nice breakfast for myself and then went shopping for groceries -- and by "went shopping," I mean I went to the living room, picked up my computer, and ordered groceries online to be delivered. Still, it felt productive. Usually, my pre-noon Saturday agenda consists mainly of scratching myself and occasionally grunting.

I cleaned myself up, put away the freshly delivered groceries, and set off on an afternoon of fun, freedom, and adult responsibilities. My first stop was a much-needed haircut, and I walked out of the salon with a spring in my step, feeling a touch snazzier than usual. I spent the rest of the afternoon running errands that took me to all corners of the Quad Cities and back again.

Later that evening, I went to the memorial gathering for a former co-worker we lost a few months back. I'd tell you that it was a horribly sad affair, but it absolutely wasn't. Jane Woodward was a spitfire whose huge heart was matched only by her booming voice and infectious laugh. If you made her mad, she'd sure let you know about it. But if you made her smile, you could hear her cackle from the third floor. She was one of my favorite people at the paper, and I'll miss her for the rest of my days -- but I refuse to be sad about it. I'd rather be happy for having known her. 

Besides, if she knew people were all sad and mopey at her memorial service, she'd come back and haunt us all. I'm pretty sure she even told me that once.

Jane's celebration of life was packed with friends, family, and colleagues, including some former co-workers I hadn't seen in a mighty long time. In fact, I bumped into one former colleague I don't think I'd seen since she left probably some fifteen years ago. We were in the depths of that awkward "OH-WOW-I-HAVEN'T-SEEN-YOU-IN-AGES" small talk when she said it:

"Are you still at the paper? Oh, wait, what I am saying? YOU'RE PROBABLY RETIRED BY NOW, surely?"

Umm... whut? 

It turns out nothing kills the buzz of a looking-good, feeling-good kinda day faster than someone assuming I'm more than a decade older than I actually am. For most of my entire life, I've proudly been the guy who's looked YOUNGER than I actually am. I was getting carded well into my thirties. Recently, I asked a friend what age they thought I came across as. "You have the face of a 40-something," she replied, "and I'm pretty sure your brain is about 14." I am perfectly okay with this evaluation.

But never before has anyone assumed I'm much older than I am. Was today's haircut less awesome than I had previously assumed? Is my ironic wearing of old-guy shirts ceasing to be irony? Perhaps. On that day, I was feeling like a spring chicken. However, according to at least one person, I must have looked like it was time to put me to pasture.

None of this has helped my mindset this week, because as I type this, I am two days away from potentially feeling even older than I do right now. I am about to DJ a themed club night of all goth, industrial, darkwave, and synthpop music down at Wake Brewing. I'd invite you, but by the time you read this, it will have already happened. Maybe you were there. Maybe it was awesome.

I am most likely going to look super silly. Goth culture is usually a younger man's game. You sure don't often see anyone who appears to be past retirement age wearing black eyeliner and a Cure t-shirt. Goth music is dour, foreboding stuff specifically designed for angsty teens to play at top volume in order to freak out their parents. I'm pretty sure the people running this event are half my age, let alone the ones who will be attending.

But once upon a time, that angsty music was a super important part of my life. After having spent the better part of this week in my basement dusting off decades-old records and memories, I officially do not care how silly I look turning up to DJ this thing. I might be the least gothy-looking goth DJ of all time, but I'm going to have a blast. Who cares if I'm starting to look past my prime? I'm inviting some of my old goth friends from yesteryear to come down, relive our glory days, and see if today's goth culture can learn a thing or two from the old guard.

After all, you know who IS past retirement age and still wearing black eyeliner and Cure t-shirts? THE CURE, that's who. They're the grandpappies of goth, and they're going on a world tour this summer. If ol' Robert Smith can tease up his grey hair and take to the stage every night, I'm certainly capable of spinning his records.

So don't worry, folks. I have no plans to retire any time in the near future. Based on the current size of my nest egg (or lack thereof,) that day may never come. Wait, unless there's gifts. Are there gifts?