Redisovering Myself: The start of a sudden Retirement

Author: debmalone1229

  • “Sourdough and Serenity: Finding Joy in Baking After Retirement”

    what happens when you say goodbye to your 9-to-5 and hello to endless possibilities? For many of us, it’s like flipping a switch—suddenly, retirement feels like a VIP pass to creativity. But why do we find ourselves wanting to channel our inner Martha Stewart, Joanna Gaines, and Betty Crocker all at once?

    The Call to Baking

    Take me, for example. I never had the slightest desire to bake bread until one Sunday afternoon when I stumbled upon an article about a clever sourdough storage solution. In that moment, I was up and in the kitchen, searching for items to make homemade bread. Now, I’m immersed in baking artisan loaves and experimenting with decadent banana bread and homemade pies. Who knew that I had this inner culinary explorer waiting to make her grand debut? It’s as if I’ve tapped into a hidden potential, inspired by the abundance of time that retirement offers. I’m fondly reminded of my mother teaching 4-H cooking classes, where shared passions fueled my love for cooking and creativity.

    Rediscovering Family Traditions

    As I dust off my mixing bowls and measure flour, baking quickly transforms from a simple activity into an artistic expression. But let’s not stop there. Suddenly, my home feels like it’s crying out for a makeover worthy of an Instagram influencer. Every room is filled with creative possibilities, and every color scheme seems to beckon me.

    I remember when I first started writing this blog—I couldn’t quite grasp the fascination with sourdough starters and the trend of naming them (“Why name your bread like it’s your pet?”). However, my skepticism was put to the test when I learned that you can store a sourdough starter while on vacation, allowing it to be fed and cared for in your absence. Yes, folks, you can relax on the beach while your sourdough gets the love it needs!

    This revelation made me fully realize how deep the connection to baking goes for many retirees. It’s not just about the bread; it’s about the experience, the joy of creating something fundamental, and perhaps even the desire to reconnect with childhood memories of togetherness in the kitchen. Each loaf I bake is not just a product; it’s a journey that reconnects me with family traditions that once brought us together.

    Creating a Home Sanctuary

    So, why this sudden transformation? Maybe it’s the newfound freedom that comes with retirement. We finally have the luxury of time to rekindle old hobbies or adopt new ones—to step into the world of homesteading and cultivate skills that take us back to simpler times. My taste buds tingle with excitement from my latest baking endeavors, and I can feel my creative vision bubbling over!

    But it’s not just me enjoying this culinary renaissance—my daughter and granddaughters are the lucky recipients of all this baked goodness! Hearing how they savor my latest creations fills my heart with joy. Baking has become a delightful way to bond with them. I often find myself reminiscing about the times when they were little and eager to bake cookies, especially during our holiday baking sessions. Those cherished moments of laughter, flour-covered hands, and the sweet aroma wafting through the house are treasures that weave our family closer together.

    Share Your Stories

    As we navigate this new chapter, let’s remember that embracing our newfound hobbies—whether that means baking, redecorating, or nurturing a sourdough starter—can add immense joy and fulfillment to our lives. I invite you—whether you’re baking bread, redecorating a room, or simply trying something new—to share your stories in the comments. How are you exploring new passions in retirement?

    Let’s channel our inner Martha, Joanna, and Betty, and make our homes (and kitchens) reflections of our passions and creativity. Together, we can inspire one another and create a vibrant community celebrating this exciting phase of life.

    Here’s to baking, decorating, and discovering ourselves anew! Don’t forget to subscribe for upcoming posts where I’ll share favorite recipes and tips for transforming your space into a personal sanctuary. After all, retirement is not just an end; it’s a delightful beginning of exploration and possibility!

  • Retirement, A Birthday Trip, and Five Miles of Frozen Togetherness

    Ah, retirement. That magical moment when you get to sleep in every day, sip coffee in your PJs, and spend all of your time with the love of your life. I should be thrilled, right? Well, I was. At least, that’s what I told myself as my husband, Larry, once again brought up the yearly trek to an automotive swap meet.

    Now, I love Larry with all my heart. I truly do. But we’ve spent 40+ years building a life together, and suddenly, we are sharing 24/7. There’s a limit to how much “together” any human being should be exposed to, and let’s just say, I am not quite ready to become a full-time Larry observer.

    But as with everything in life, there’s always the curveball. And this time, that curveball was a cold, miserable trip to the annual auto swap meet—which always happens around his birthday. Oh, the joy.

    Every year, Larry has this ritual: his birthday gift to himself is a day spent scouring dusty tables piled high with vintage car parts, rare tires, and, I’m assuming, other things that go “vroom” but not in any modern way. And this year, we’d be walking, I don’t know, five miles of it. Five. Miles. In the freezing cold. That’s not a gift; that’s a torture device.

    “Come on, Debbie! It’ll be fun!” Larry said, flashing me one of those endearing smiles, the kind he thinks can convince me to do anything. I wasn’t sold. I looked out the window at the wind blowing, checked the temp on my phone  and pulled on my scarf, cursing the calendar for this ridiculous tradition. What kind of person walks five miles in a field of cold metal to look at car parts?

    We arrived, and of course, it was windy. Of course, it was freezing. And of course, I didn’t have enough layers on.  But off we went, Larry’s excitement rising like a child on Christmas morning. I trudged along beside him, muttering under my breath. The rocks hurt my feet, my nose was red, and my hair was doing that thing where it had an unspoken agreement with the wind to never look cute again. But there was Larry, hopping from booth to booth, gleefully inspecting every rusty old road sign  and faded license plate as if they were treasures.

    I’d like to say that I had an epiphany about how much I loved him at that moment. But no. Instead, I decided to complain. A lot.

    “Larry, are you seriously seriously looking at a box of old license plates right now?”

    “Yup, these are vintage!” he said with the same enthusiasm someone might have while finding their long-lost puppy. I rolled my eyes.

    By the third long row of booths, I was over the license plates, the road signs, and whatever else people sell in the name of vintage cars. But here’s where the magic happened. It wasn’t the cold or the fact that I was trying to ignore my developing frostbite; it was the fact that we were doing this together. Yes, I was freezing. Yes, I may have developed an irrational hatred for old car parts. But there was Larry, excited like a kid in a candy store. And in that moment, I realized I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

    We finished our five-mile trek, the last booth finally in sight, and Larry looked at me with that tired-but-happy smile. “See? You survived! And it wasn’t that bad, right?”

    I nodded, trying not to let the wind whip my face off entirely. “It wasn’t that bad… I guess.”

    And that’s the thing about retirement, I guess. You don’t always want to do the same things your spouse is passionate about. You don’t always want to walk five miles in the freezing cold just to look at some old car parts that have  seen better days. But, despite all that, it’s those shared moments that create a kind of magic. Because, in the end, what’s a little cold when you’ve got each other?Retirement means we’ll have more of these moments—maybe not the cold moments, but definitely the moments when we find joy in being together. So I’ll embrace it. I might even start looking at old road signs  with a little more enthusiasm… (Okay, no, I won’t, but I’ll try.)

  • Volunteering: A tale of Time, Perseverance and Paperwork

    I’ve always volunteered. It’s like my version of a hobby—except it never comes with an off switch or a “project complete” sign. Even when I was working full-time, I volunteered for a group restoring our local historic theatre. And here we are, ten years later, still chipping away at it.
    We’ve made progress, sure, but donations in our small town are as rare as a solar eclipse.
    There have been plenty of times when it feels like I’m trying to push a boulder uphill—lots of movement, not much to show for it.
    But a real turning point came for me about a month ago when I almost decided to walk away. It wasn’t the theatre project itself that had me ready to quit; it was the toxic drama at the workplace that
    spilled over into the community. A few people’s frustrations with a boss sparked a chain reaction, and suddenly, the entire town was caught in the fallout. The negativity spread like wildfire, and
    every conversation seemed to revolve around it. It felt like the whole community was drowning in drama, and I realized I’d had enough. I decided to resign from the board overseeing the theatre restoration. I thought, “That’s it. I’m done with this community and all the chaos.” I showed up at the meeting, shared my reasons for stepping down, and thought that was the end of it. But then, the group came back with solid reasons for why I should stay, and I found myself questioning if I was letting all the workplace drama take away something that still mattered to me.
    Here’s the thing with small towns: It’s always the same people doing the heavy lifting. But why? Why don’t more people volunteer? Why does it feel like only a few folks are carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders? Maybe it’s because people feel they don’t have time or don’t want to commit long-term. Or—let’s be real—sometimes it’s because no one ever asked them. So how do we get more people to step up?
    Maybe the answer is to make volunteering feel less like climbing Mount Everest and more like taking a casual stroll through a park. We could offer short, simple projects where volunteers can
    see immediate results. Throw in some social media shoutouts or turn it into a team event where families and friends can pitch in. Suddenly, the whole time commitment thing doesn’t feel so
    overwhelming.
    For me, the key to sticking with volunteering was reconnecting with why I started in the first place. I had to ask myself, “Why do I need to keep giving my time to this group?” The real reason I almost left was my frustration with the community itself. When you live in a small town, everyone knows everyone’s business—or at least they think they do—and it’s easy to lump everyone together in one big ball of frustration. But then I thought about the people in the theatre group—the ones who would actually benefit from the project. They weren’t the ones causing all the drama, so why let that stop me?
    So, like a stubborn mule (thanks, family genes), I decided to keep going—just in a way that would allow me to take a step back from the chaos. I’m not dealing with the public-facing stuff for now; I’m sticking to the behind-the-scenes work. Paperwork, grants, all the unsung heroes of the volunteering world. And you know what? It feels a little bit better this way. I found a grant and dove into the paperwork, like it was a treasure hunt that was totally worth the time.
    I also learned that volunteering can help reduce stress, anxiety, and even anger. Sure, “rage cleaning” is still my go-to for handling frustration, but diving into this grant has given me some
    peace. It’s helped me focus and calm my nerves in a way I didn’t expect.
    Will my attitude towards the community ever change? I don’t know maybe, maybe not. There’s still a lot of division and bitterness. But now, I’ve got my pen, my grant applications, and a quiet corner to work in. Maybe it’s not the loudest way to volunteer, but it feels right for me, right now. And hey, who knows? Maybe we’ll even get that boulder up top.

  • “Rage Cleaning”

    Rage Cleaning: When Your Vacuum Becomes a Weapon of Mass Destruction

    You know that feeling when life throws you one too many curveballs, and suddenly, you find yourself gripping a mop like it’s a lightsaber, and you’re the last Jedi standing between order and complete household chaos? That, my friends, is rage cleaning. It’s not just tidying up—it’s  full-scale domestic warfare against dust, clutter, and every single item that dares to be out of place.

    It starts innocently enough. Maybe your boss, sensing your looming retirement or part-time status, sent one too many passive-aggressive emails with last-minute demands and sudden ‘urgent’ projects that mysteriously never existed before, or your husband left a trail of coffee cups, and mysterious ‘I’ll get to it later’ items scattered across the house. Before you know it, you’re furiously scrubbing the stove like you’re trying to erase all of  life’s regrets. Or muttering under your breath about how your husband seems to believe the kitchen counter is the trash bin’s waiting room, where garbage patiently lingers before making its final journey to the actual bin. 

    Rage cleaning has stages. First, there’s the “Why am I the only one who cares about this mess?” phase, where you stomp from room to room, picking up items with increasing frustration. Then, there’s the “I guess I’ll just do it myself” phase, where you become a one-person cleaning army, vacuuming like you’re trying to suck up all of your problems. And finally, the “If I have to look at this clutter one more second, it’s all going in the trash” phase—where even innocent objects start looking guilty.

    The best part? Rage cleaning is oddly productive. You could be stewing in frustration, or you could have a gleaming kitchen counter that smells like lavender-scented victory. Who needs therapy when you have a broom and an overwhelming sense of injustice?

    Some people go for a run to clear their heads. Others meditate. Me? I wage war on durst & grime.. There’s something deeply satisfying about aggressively wiping down the fridge while muttering about the injustices of the world. It’s like a workout, but instead of abs, you get an immaculate kitchen. Plus, nothing says “I am totally fine” like reorganizing the spice cabinet at 11 p.m. with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

    So next time you feel your blood pressure rising, skip the argument and grab a sponge. By the time you’re done rage cleaning, your home will be spotless, your nerves will be slightly less frazzled, and your vacuum may or may not have battle scars.

    Have you ever found yourself rage cleaning? Tell me your most epic cleaning meltdown—bonus points if it involved yelling at inanimate objects.

    2/7/25

  • The Fist Month

    The first month of 2025 has been, to put it mildly, a plot twist I didn’t see coming. I always assumed retirement would be a gentle, well-planned transition—maybe I’d take up knitting, travel the world, or become a professional napper. Instead, life yanked the rug out from under me, and I found myself staring at the great unknown, wondering, “Now what?”

    You see, my “retirement” wasn’t exactly voluntary. I quit my job—not for a grand adventure, but because the workplace had devolved into something out of a reality TV show where the boss was the reigning champion of “Bully-in-Chief” who thrived on intimidation, while a select group of favorites seemed to glide through work unscathed, bending rules with a smirk and a well-placed compliment. ” The daily specials included workplace drama, passive-aggressive emails, and a side of endless overtime, with unfinished work haunting my evenings and weekends like a bad sitcom rerun. I often fantasized about flipping my desk in dramatic protest, but in the end, I settled for the more responsible option: walking away before I lost my sanity. And just like that, I was free… sort of.

    The first couple of weeks was a blur of what my husband affectionately calls “rage cleaning”—a full-throttle attack on every speck of dust and misplaced item in my house. Picture me, wielding a vacuum like Thor’s hammer, shouting battle cries at stubborn grout stains. Every forgotten pile of clutter met its doom, every dusty surface trembled in fear. If nothing else, I was determined to scrub my way into a sense of control.

    But once the house was sparkling, (though lets be honest, not exactly sparkling) reality set in. What now? I still woke up early, out of sheer muscle memory, only to remember there was nowhere I needed to be. My biggest morning decision became whether to put on real clothes or stay in what I now lovingly call my “all-day lounge uniform.” (Spoiler alert: the lounge uniform wins every time.) Retirement, so far, felt less like freedom and more like playing hooky from life—minus the thrill of sneaking around.

    My husband handled retirement differently. When his plant shut down, he seamlessly transitioned into tinkering with cars, fixing things around the house, and embracing the great outdoors. Meanwhile, I was busy contemplating whether I should finally learn how to bake bread or just continue buying it like a normal person. Turns out, some people actually name their sourdough starters and treat them like beloved pets. Honestly, I’m both intrigued and slightly alarmed by this level of commitment to fermented dough.

    Before retirement, my schedule was packed. I was either shuttling my grandkids to activities, cheering them on from the sidelines, or caring for my aging parents. My job title could have been “Grandma-Uber,”. Later, after my parents passed, I became the family archivist, sorting through decades of memories and deciding which distant cousin deserved the vintage cookie jar. My days were full, dictated by the needs of others. And now? Now it’s just me, an open calendar, and a very clean house.

    The question of “Now what?” is bigger than I expected. It’s not just about what to do with my time—it’s about rediscovering who I am beyond my career, beyond my responsibilities. But maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to figure it all out immediately. Maybe I can take my time—try a part-time job, revisit old hobbies, or discover something entirely new. (Though I draw the line at forming emotional attachments to dough.)

    What I’ve learned in this first month is that self-discovery isn’t about having a flawless plan. It’s about patience, curiosity, and embracing the unknown. Whether it’s rage cleaning or contemplating the mysteries of sourdough, every small step counts.

    So, to those of you who have retired—or are thinking about it—how did you navigate the transition? Did you dive into new hobbies or stumble into a new routine? Share your wisdom! Let’s try and figure this out together—one day (and maybe one questionable sourdough experiment) at a time.