I retired on a Tuesday because it felt mischievous not to wait for a Friday.

My coworkers gave me a card with a silly cartoon of a hammock and a tiny watering can for my new “garden lifestyle,” as if retirement automatically comes with cucumbers and a floppy hat. I hugged people I’d seen every weekday for nearly four decades, carried a box of plants and pens to my car, and drove home with the radio up and the window cracked so the wind could remind me I’d done it—I’d really finished.

On the drive, I made a list in my head: sign up for the watercolor class at the community center, finally take that three-day train trip along the coast with the glass observation car, join Elaine’s book club instead of hearing about it secondhand.