Time is a funny thing (strange funny, that is; ha-ha funny, not so much). We see it pass in our own faces and in the faces of those we love, in the faces of the places we used to know, and on the face of things in general. Feeling those passages seems to leap out at me when I least expect it. Like today, for example. To wit:

B. and I have lots of friends who have retired (we’re at that age and it’s not that uncommon). I will even (very reluctantly) count myself as one of those people (only sometimes, though, when my writing is not exactly flowing and I’m not exactly feeling filled with purpose). Retirement is not a word I’m comfortable with, and until I figure out what exactly I want to do with it, I try to ignore it. Besides, do writers ever really retire if they keep on writing? (Define what you mean by “writing,” because a Target list isn’t it.)

What happened today was a confluence of things, actually. First, a post from a former college friend celebrating the joy of her retirement. A bit of a shock (not at her joy, but at her retirement itself) because the last time I was in this friend’s presence, she was just a college kid, hanging out on the quad, lining up in the dining hall, pulling all-nighters while cramming for finals. Retirement? Not possible (although, of course, I know it’s more than possible). I think it’s the disconnect between remembering her in the world I knew her in and seeing her, figuratively speaking, in today’s world. When exactly did those two collide?

Then there’s the soundtrack of today’s errands. Cat Stevens’s “Oh Very Young” played while I drove (when did I become the singer and not the very young person – and when did those faded jeans with the patches become mine?); followed by “Father and Son” (when did the father’s point of view suddenly start making sense?); capped off by “Peace Train” (yet again, when did that song, talking about the hope of potential global peace, suddenly start sounding as if it were also a yearning for peace of mind?). When did the paradigm shift?

More? Carly Simon. (I know, I know, I was caught in a maelstrom of ’70s classics and I couldn’t get out – by my own choosing.) The opening strains of “Anticipation” reminded me of when I first heard that song, remembering how it felt to be 13 years old and anticipating a life of endless possibilities. Hearing it now, I laughed to myself, adoring the innocence of that young girl and her unjaded belief in Tinkerbell. Learning that everyone’s life does have its limitations is part of the growing-up process, I suppose. And, if you’re very lucky, learning how to turn those limitations to your advantage is a true art. In that regard, I consider myself a struggling – yet still hopeful – artist.

Giving up the CDs for the car radio (yes, I’m old-school on both counts) unearthed Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud”, which almost did me in as I parked. The lyric about “loving you till we’re seventy” – echoing Paul McCartney’s question about “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four” as well as Paul Simon’s “Can you imagine us years from today … how terribly strange to be seventy” – actually shook me up a bit. When did I go from being on the singer / songwriter’s side of the perception – young and self-assured, with the age he or she sang about being so far down the road that the mile markers were still invisible at that point – to being on the older, albeit (supposedly) wiser side of things? When exactly did the traffic patterns switch? Somewhere between AAA road maps and GPS, I imagine.

Changing lanes is inevitable, it seems – but the proverbial music we listen to along the way? That remains constant.

Duly noted.

©2025 Claudia Grossman