Retirement in 10 ... 9 ...

... 8.  After this one, there are only eight weeks left before I walk out of an office for the last time. February and March. That's it. And I can't begin to describe how very strange, how unreal this feels.

I've left jobs before, of course, and I've had jobs that went away when divisions closed. But retirement ... isn't that for old people? And then it hits me that yes, it is. And yes, I am. That last nasty truth has been creeping up on me for a while, but the full realization has come as something of a shock.

I find myself suddenly exploring not the latest hot stock or superstar mutual fund, but the details of my pension plan and (oh God) Social Freaking Security.

And it gets worse: The Hubby. He's old too! We. Are. OLD. I can't believe it happened, not to US. Not YET.

I blame AARP. This all started when those damn cards came in the mail. It's been downhill ever since.

Well, there's no turning back. I told everyone at work that I'm leaving at the end of March, and I've notified my supervisor and HR. And in truth, I'd rather face a future career as a bag lady than endure one hour more than I have to in the place.

I'm trying to focus on the freedom and fun that I know lies just ahead, out there beyond the panic. Somewhere out in the storage building there is a pottery wheel and kiln, left over from my hippie days. The basement contains lots of cool old furniture that I always meant to refurbish. I always wanted to learn how to draw. I have yet to master my camera.

 The cold, grey snow will be on the ground for a few more weeks, but spring will come. And the potting shed awaits.