Fantasy Island

Or, What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

Sipping margaritas on the beach.

Racking up frequent-flier miles.

Whittling on the front porch.

Working on a killer body.

Reading all day in a comfy chair.

Joining every club. (The way Marcia Brady did in that one episode.)

You’ve got your idea of what a perfect retirement will be like. It’s different for everyone. I had my own. It was both vague and specific — an idea I couldn’t quite pin down, but that seemed clear to me. I wanted to stroll. I wanted to discover. I wanted to watch people and notice the obvious and not-so-obvious patterns of the city I’ve lived in for 34 years. I’ve been in L.A. for more than half of my life, but I’m not sure I really know it, and I wanted retirement to change that. In short: I wanted to be a flâneur.

It’s a fancy word I only learned a few years ago. It’s such a great word. Charles Baudelaire wrote about flâneurs, the people who wander about with no set destination. They regard the city as a work of art to be savored. Some of them walk around with umbrellas and someone else on their arm, or with a lobster or a turtle on a leash. I didn’t want to go that far. I can’t even get my dog to venture outside of our neighborhood. But, ah! Sigh! What an idea! To spend time, not to waste it.

Of course, I live in Los Angeles, not Paris or London. To stroll through any part of the city, I’d need to drive 40 minutes to get there, find parking, and withstand the stares. “Nobody walks in L.A.,” Missing Persons sang. Sort of satirical. Sort of true.

Still, there were bookstores to be discovered — I pictured spending a day at a time inside Book Soup. Wandering the museums. Wandering and wondering. That was my image of retirement!

I might get to do it one day, but first I’ve got to get to Costco. Ten minutes in that parking lot will knock the will to wander out of anyone, much less a half-hour waiting in line to see the $400 bill.

Then I need to stop off at the car wash and the post office before getting to the vet to pick up the dog (another $400 … thank God for pet insurance!). If I’m lucky, I might be able to drive thru McDonald’s for a bite before I get home to meet the plumber. Again. And once he leaves and the water’s back on, I can tackle the laundry. Better I do it during the week so we can have more free time on the weekends … to go grocery shopping and spend a half-day at the home-improvement store.

Ah, retirement! The stuff of dreams.

Turns out that this, too, is a phenomenon well known to those who write about and study retirement. And for some people, it’s even worse: other people ask them to do chores, figuring they’ve got nothing to do all day!

This is all new to me. It’s an adjustment. And some of it’s unavoidable: I’m half of a “mixed” couple — one retired, one not. He doesn’t have time to help out with things while he works, because he’s doing something hugely important for us: bringing in a steady paycheck and providing health insurance. I made the choice to retire; I didn’t have to.

Is this life of errands and chores and dog-walking and running around dealing with terrible drivers a disappointment? Hm. Can I be honest? Yes. A bit. I had a dream, and it’s not coming true.

Then again, I once worked for a very, very wealthy, well-known, highly admired man who traveled all around the world. Sometimes my job required I be with him. Once, we were in Tokyo, getting ready for a massive press event with 500 media. It was the height of excitement, but he was late. I went up to his room to make sure he was okay. “Thank God you’re here,” he said, pointing to his son running around in the background. “He lost his homework. We’ve been looking for a half-hour. Can you help us find it?”

That’s life. It happens to everybody, retired or not. What did I expect? Well, I expected to be a flâneur, of course.

Mark my words: One day I’ll get that top hat and coat with tails and the monocle and spend my days looking in shop windows and wishing others “Good afternoon” while they stare at my pet turtle.

One day, I may reach into my pocket, withdraw an inlaid case, and hand you my calling card.

Until then, my Costco card will have to do.