Parker’s Pleasure Principle: The Retirement Edition

Retirement. Ah, I once thought you were such a dirty word, ushering in an era where you’re sent out to pasture, discarded, no longer central to the functioning of society. Meanwhile, you’ve become my favorite R-word after rest and relaxation! I’m over here counting days to 24-hour PJ-days, greeting the sunrise on Bloubergstrand, and counting daisies for hours on sand dunes, snow-white and hot from the African sun. No more admin, wires, and endless days typing out Los, S2S, POAs, etc. Instead, I fully intend to act without thought, giving true meaning to the word “wireless.”

I’ve come to believe retirement isn’t the graveyard of relevance; it’s emancipation! It’s when you peel off the corporate skin, toss the spreadsheets skyward like a kite surfer on a particularly windy West Coast day, and scream: I’m free from fluorescent lights and endless group chats!

I’ve traded deadlines for tan lines, and darling, I’ll be leaving huge imprints in the sand…

Parker’s Philosophy (Now With More Attitude)

Pleasure isn’t a reward. It’s the whole damn point. Retirement just means I finally got the memo: life is one long buffet, and I’m done nibbling politely at the salad bar. I’m going straight for the wagyu steak, and I’m lathering it with butter and eating it with my hands.

Parker’s Psychology (Post-9-to-5, Post-Caring)

Alarm clocks? On mute.

Meetings? My “Out of Office” will be permanent.

Being “productive”? That means something entirely different now. The only thing I will be doing is walking on the beach and swimming in the cold waters off Big Bay, wearing a swimming cap with flowers and a sarong I purchased in Bali in June. And if you hear a flip-flop in the store, that will be me, slipping and sliding down the aisles in search of food.

Doing nothing is my new default setting. Call me lazy, and I’ll just stretch luxuriously in my silk robe and ask you to pass my drink and shush.

The Retiree’s Pleasure List (a.k.a. The Screw-the-Rules)

• Breakfasts so long they lead to a siesta at 2 p.m.
• Naps so decadent I need a cigarette afterward.
• Strutting through the mall at 11 a.m., sipping a latte, watching the employed scuttle past like tiny crabs to dig themselves into the sand.
• Booking holidays on a Tuesday, because I need rest from my rest.
• Reading the Sunday paper on a Wednesday, while smearing croissant flakes over the crossword.
• Gardening in pajamas on the balcony and waving at my nosy neighbour, coffee in hand.
• Lunches with friends that dissolve into “oops, it’s midnight.”
• Playing with the grandbabies, hyping them up on sugar, and returning them sticky, feral, and vibrating with chaos.
• Rediscovering my hobbies: disco, bad poetry, and pillow fights.
• Spontaneous road trips with no destination except “pleasure.” GPS off, middle finger up.
• Sitting by the sea, smug as hell, whispering to the waves: I made it, bit*#hes.

Here’s the dirty little secret of the Parker Pleasure Principle: Retirement isn’t about “slowing down.” Please. Slowing down is for traffic. Retirement is about finally speeding up toward whatever the hell makes you cackle at inappropriate decibels.

It’s about saying yes to dessert, no to bras, and hell no to anyone who dares invite you to a formal event on a Sunday, when Sundays are for bedrooms…

So let me leave you with this:

The office doesn’t need me anymore. But life? Oh, darling, life absolutely does. And she wants me in pink negligées and bare feet with bed hair and bad behavior.