This post sat in draft for months. It was written just after I returned to work after three weeks leave and (depressingly) discovered that nothing had changed. If anything it felt a little worse. Everyone was exhausted, we remained massively understaffed, and an almost hysterical tension filled the air. Everything told me we were at breaking point. Preoccupied with very real workplace woes, most people I encountered on my first day back had not even noticed I’d been away.
Of course, this triggered an egotistical flinch and a long reflective pause of existential ennui.
Back to the present and the question remains: “Why am I still here?”
To help me answer that, let’s phone a friend.
I very recently resumed contact with an old schoolmate. Our timelines merged in 1981 then disentangled in 1986 when he moved interstate for university. We reconnected in the 2010’s when my work for Deloitte sent me to Melbourne on and off for a year or two, but then I abandoned that side-hustle and the connection frayed. Totally out of the blue, WhatsApp burped him up a few weeks ago and I took the plunge.
Now we chat almost daily. Science fiction, art, marriage, the insidious march of dementia. Let’s call him Andrew.
Andrew is relevant because he’s the same age as I am, and his woes parallel my own. The unsubtle indignities of middle-age are upon both of us, and while we’re not exactly on the same page physically or mentally, we’re in lockstep when it comes to our most immediate life goal: RETIRMENT.
My plan is not complicated — my current contract renews 16 February 2029. I will recently have become a sexagenarian. An opportune moment to ask “The Big Question”. When EXACTLY can I retire? I suspect an appropriately-qualified book-nerd could punch numbers into a pocket calculator (remember those?) and shout “NOW baby, now!” And with this enthusiastic endorsement ringing in my ears I would turn triumphantly to my wife who (weeping) would fall fetchingly to her knees and persuade me to complete yet another five-year contract.
“Just a few dollars more!” she’d wail.
That means February 15 2034 will be my absolute latest retirement date.
Who needs a financial adviser when you’re married, right? But while I may have less than 100 months to go, that’s still a shitload of boxes left to tick. It will take a toll. The long-game is also galling when every source of advice seems to shout the same message: The biggest regret people have is not retiring early enough!
The flip side (i.e., my wife’s side) is that if I stay until February 15 2034 then there will be $1.5M AUD (before tax) in my pocket, plus superannuation, plus my wife’s earnings and super. Picture a set of scales in perfect equilibrium. On one side is a big fat pile of gold coins glinting in the light, on the other is everything else that matters in life.
But when is enough enough? How do you keep everything in balance?
Which brings me back to Andrew. I’m not confident he’s out of the woods. He’s had carer duties thrust upon him and he’s not happy. For good or ill, nobody seems to retire according to plan. Our working lives end not because we reach that lofty financial goal or career milestone but because life punched us in the face and knocks us out of the game. You become unwell or a carer to someone unwell. You get retrenched, managed out, or simply sacked. Anything’s possible.
For me, I think the numbers will stack up okay. I suspect by the time I’m 60 if retirement is thrust upon me, then my wife and I will be okay. Every extra year I work after that will add icing to the cake/gravy to the roast. And I do enjoy a little gravy, I will admit. And to be honest I’m checking off the boxes pretty quick. Soon I’ll be putting a big pink cross through September 2026, which means only 89 boxes to go!