From the fourth grade on, I worked. Job upon job, plus school which, as we know, if done right, is work too. I didn't stop until I was seventy-five and, even then, it was with mixed emotions. Of course, as the great Lily Tomlin once said, the problem with the rat race is that, even if you win, you're still a rat. So I came to regard retirement as time to hang it up, box it up, and give it up: hang up my suits, box up the accoutrements of my trade (don't ask), and give up trying to impress anybody with my hard-earned professional competence. These days, for me, each day is like every other day, and I find that positively exhilarating. I have come to love life in a rut. I arise early, feed the cats, read for an hour or two, check the news on-line, then go out to walk for an hour. Often while I'm walking, I'm writing these little squibs in my head. The remainder of the day is for puttering: more to read, perhaps some writing, yard chores, kitchen work. I've been social distancing since long before the virus arrived at our shores. It suits my essentially misanthropic personality. So perhaps there are different types of ruts. They don't have to be dull and unproductive. My personal rut is more exciting than scratching under a cat's chin, and may be somewhat repetitive but always at varying speeds and in different garb.
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