I always wanted to be a writer.  Naturally, I went into law enforcement.  Don’t judge.  It made sense at the time.  Besides I was giving back to the community, serving the public and the greater good.  At least that’s how I envisioned my career choice.  Things aren’t always as glamorous or exciting as portrayed on television.  Not that “Hill Street Blues” made cop life look glamorous with it’s gritty, urban cinematography.  Yet, somehow, it struck a nerve with me and further strengthened my occupational dream of toting a gun and badge.

Flaunting my law enforcement authority over the public never put the wind in my sails.  I didn’t get off telling others what to do.  I still don’t.  I saw this field as an opportunity to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.  I desired to stand between those wishing to inflict harm and the victims on the other side.  Not to sound corny, but the notion of making the world a little bit better and safer place floated my boat.  It still does.

But I’m rapidly nearing the end of my career.  Like anything else, I celebrated the good times, slogged through the challenging moments, and tolerated the flat periods of monotony.  Should I now find a well paying job within corporate security?  That sounds like a fine plan, but not so much to me.  Even though a former coworker described it as “running away from my resume”, I want to do something other than law enforcement/security work.  Forge a new life far removed from the world of cops and robbers, good guys and bad guys.  

Fantastic!  Since you always wanted to be a writer, craft the next murder mystery or police drama series.  Yuck.  Remember, I’m running away from my resume.  That sounds like I’m running around it and I despise jogging the oval of a track.  And why do I have to run?  Can’t I simply walk away from my resume?  Taking a leisurely stroll into retirement or wading into a second career sounds far better to me.  Don’t tell me I can’t.  It’s my retirement, dammit!

Which brings me to the question bouncing back and forth inside my cranium.  What exactly do I want to pursue when I retire?  I always dreamed of writing for a living, but not all dreams morph into a viable reality.  I’ve written one novel and lots of blog posts that meander through the jagged terrain of my creative mind.  I believe my total viewership of these works can be counted on my fingers, possibly just one hand.  I have to ask myself, “do I suck at writing”?  Maybe I possess lackluster marketing skills, thereby missing my target audience.  

Increasingly, I think I just suck at it.  It happens.  Plenty of people perform poorly in areas they enjoy.  Therefore, I must fully consider other post-retirement career/job opportunities.

Immediately, I’m ruling out male escort.  Sure the pay is swell, but how much Viagra can a 58 year man take and remain a viable work option in this field before a massive coronary or a life altering erection.  Other parts of the body need blood, too, you know.  Plus, there must be age restrictions, let alone weight guidelines.  I’m sure there’s a niche market for old, fat, hairy guys, but somebody’s likely already corned that clientele.  Then there’s the whole marriage thing.  “No honey, I hate this job.  You know, it’s just business, nothing more.  “If you got a higher paying job dear, I wouldn’t have to objectify myself like this.”

When I was a kid I wanted to be Ringo Starr.  Of course, it’s impossible to transform into another existing human being, let alone an 84 year old.  However, I’m willing to be a professional rock star, even if it’s not Ringo.  I don’t play any musical instruments beyond butchering select chords, I can’t sing, and I don’t own a pair of leather pants.  Although the pay may far exceed my monthly retirement allotment, this may prove quite an uphill battle.  Hey, it’s not like Bob Dylan’s voice made anybody forget about Sinatra.  If I squint, I can see a faint glimmer of possibility with this idea. 

Photography piqued my interests over the years.  I received a Kodak Instamatic camera for Christmas back in the seventies.  It was pretty much kid proof which was good, because I was a kid.  I think that camera’s tucked away somewhere in relative obscurity, inside a shoebox upstairs with some faded photos.  It was super cool because we took photographs with a thing called film.  You had no idea how the pics would look until after you paid some guy to develop the film.  As a grade schooler to middle schooler, this was a significant financial risk.

I own a digital camera now with a few nicer lenses.  I captured as much life of the kids growing up as possible.  I’ve got some great shots of Nebraska farmland and Colorado mountains.  As hobbies go, it was probably one of favorite ones.  Somehow after the kids went to college, I don’t seem to get so much use out of it anymore.  I still enjoy taking photos, but the fire behind photography seems to have turned to glowing coals.  But a new flame can get reignited in those embers.

Have you ever heard of the Rover App?  It’s liker Tinder, but for hooking up your fur baby with a pet sitter.  Or maybe it’s AirBNB or VRBO for pets.  Either way it’s fairly slick.  If you have a 14 year old dog like mine, it’s an easy gig.  My dog, Gigi, sleeps, eats, sleeps, eats again, and goes back to sleep.  She’ll throw in a lawn biscuit and a squirt of pee just to be well rounded.  I do not know how often these folks stay booked with animals, but you basically get to work from home.  Not too shabby or shaggy of a retirement option.

Besides not knowing how to make too many drinks, I believe I’d be a wonderful bartender.  Pouring out and pontificating about the finer beers is right up my alley even though a lot of bad things happen in alleys.  Just ask Bruce Wayne.  That was a bad day.  My alley will sling exotic drinks, classic standards, and all things in-between.  My alley will make Batman proud.  Nothing but happiness and joy, no dead parents.  That really can make an alley suck.

Then there’s the geologist fantasy.  It’s a fantasy because science was never my thing.  Sure, it’s the study of rocks.  It’s not like I was in medical school or working an internship at the Los Alamos Laboratory with nuclear physicists.  Maybe geology covers more ground than just rocks.  However, rocks were the only thing in this field that captured my imagination.  I still have my rock collection from the grade school days.  Every 5-10 years I look at them.  Totally worth it to move them around the United States for the past three decades.

After watching college volleyball for the last five seasons, I’m toying with the notion of being some school’s or conference’s official floor mop guy.  I’m not sure if that’s the official title for the position, but we can work out the finer nuances of the job after determining an appropriate salary.  Of course, after my daughter’s final volleyball season, maybe my interest in the game will wane, and performing janitorial duties will not seem so glamorous.  Either way, I’d be damn fine at it – a passionately aggressive floor sweat remover.  Safety first, baby.

How about a real estate agent?  Nah, that sounds to common and I understand it requires taking tests.  There will be no test taking in my retirement.  This was a dumb idea.

I’m out of ideas, but not yet out of days until retirement.  I currently sit at 9 months, 20 days, and 37 minutes remaining.  I know this because I’m writing about it and I’ve always wanted to be a writer, as you may recall from earlier.  If you write a book and nobody reads it, are you still a novelist?  A performer needs an audience, no matter the medium.  I write because I enjoy it, but I ultimately want others to enjoy it, too.  And that’s the rub, or at least that’s my rub.  Maybe real writers care less if anyone reads their stuff.  I suppose E.E. Cummings was right – write whatever you feel, not what you believe or think and be nobody but yourself.