I’m not an expert at anything anymore. Before I retired I was an expert on all sorts of things, Dante, commas, Google Docs. No one needs my help or advice much anymore. I don’t need to bone up on any particular subject. I can drift through the rest of my life as a dilettante.
Curiosity and survival are my only two motivators. I may take an interest in 17th century plumbing or how to survive after a devastating fire.
Sitting here now looking out my den window, I can see only my neighborhood trees; beyond them is all smoke. No horizon. Kinda like the whole damn country.
Expertise in retirement takes a whole new direction. We can afford to be more selfish. We may be involved with family and the community, but we can still spend plenty of time learning for our own self. If you want to excel at blending Asian spices, trading stocks, or mixing an old fashioned, get it going, whatever your fancy.
I have talents, but none that would put me on the world stage. Also, I don’t seem to be able to improve upon them past average. I’m so-so to above average in all my skills.
I could save a drowning man, but he may have brain damage. I can dance if it’s dark. I can tile, but I can’t grout. I cook, but I can’t serve. I rhyme, but I can’t rap. Rack ‘em up. I can shoot pool like a semi-pro. Sometimes I sink three balls in a row, before I screw up and have to go. In poker, I’m the joker.
When oil painting, my realistic humans look like cartoon characters, yet I refuse to paint barns. When writing, my words get out of hand. I can turn a phrase, but not a new leaf.
I can acquire new skills, I just can’t perfect them. Once I reach mediocre, I’m usually tired. I need a break. Getting beyond mediocre takes dedication, determination, and an eye on the prize. I’m not sure what that prize is beyond self-satisfaction, so I’ll go with that.
Things I’d like to be better at: keeping plants and animals alive, fashion, social banter, housekeeping, remembering, spotting bs, keeping stains off my shirts, operating remote controls, operating the dashboard controls on our new car, finding destinations without using the damn phone, using the damn phone, finishing a novel, using up all my fresh parsley before it wilts, taking grocery bags when I shop, checking the air in my tires, family correspondence, ordering food in a Japanese restaurant, whistling, holding a smile, finding vehicle pink slips, understanding what the hell is going on in our country, and staying healthy.
I’ve never been retired before. It’s all new to me. It is a learn-as-you-go kind of experience. Already, I’ve passed through a starter phase where I was thrilled to wake up each day to no agenda. Free day after free day was my soup and crackers.
Now, when I wake up, I like having a project in the works. I like having a few responsible things to do each day to justify my existence, and then I goof off. It is currently easier to think of things to do than ways to goof off.
Do I enjoy not being an expert at anything? Am I proud of it? Is it a way of staying off the hook? Or am I lamenting my state? Ah, so. I secretly long for perfection at something, anything? Dear God give me an untarnished talent!
Perhaps experts have unbalanced, dysfunctional lives. Yeah, that’s it. When does the expert get to stop to smell the rose? He or she is too busy being an expert. No time for sniffing flowers. Or perhaps when one becomes an expert, he or she actually has more free time for smelling roses because his or her expertise allows him or her to do his or her job more efficiently. Only when there is gender unity will he or she become one expert.
Once I was a pert young man. Now I’m an ex-pert. I’ve just about beaten this topic to death, but I see I have at least three good paragraphs to go. Then another pellet will drop, and I can feed.
There is always tomorrow, and then you’re dead. People say to live each day as if it were your last. That’s crazy talk. I’d spend the whole day running around in circles screaming, “Ah! I’m gonna die!”
Instead, live each day as if it were your first. Be amazed by everything. Open your eyes in the morning and sing because you can see, and also because you can sing. Walk in wonder to the bathroom and back. Feel the sticky floor with glee. Gaze in awe at your spouse’s underwear hanging on the doorknob.
Croon over coffee. Journey to your garage and organize your screwdrivers as if it were a sacred ceremony. Drive down the street with your window down, waving at pedestrians, and calling out, “I don’t know anything. I just got here. I’m new. I’m no expert. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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