HERE IS YET ANOTHER PENDING-RETIREMENT-THEMED REPORT. My final semester, which I imagined to be a smooth glide to the landing strip, is bumpier than expected with mixed emotions of push-me-pull-you. Some days I’m eager to stay after and work with struggling writers. Other days only the Kraken of responsibility can drag me from my slumber.

Irony struck last week, though a pleasant irony. It occurred while Susan and I were out for an extended lunch. We talked, as we often do lately, of the soon-to-be time when days won’t matter, and Tuesday may as well be Saturday and September is as welcome as May. We will go by seasons and facial hair.

Then our talk shifted to summer and fall when freedom rings. We have a few excursions planned and others in the works. I brought up a few events we’d forgotten to include, as did she. This led to us pondering a way to organize our Schedule of Fun.

“Go on Amazon,” said Susan. “Look for a giant laminated wall calendar. We’ll put it in your den where your lesson plans used to be.”

“Good idea,” said I, and began my phone search. I found one that’s three feet wide and two feet tall, four blank months, dry erase. Order now. Order complete. Shipping.

It was only then, leaning back in my booth overlooking the bay, that I realized what we had done.

“Honey, do you see the giant irony of what we just did?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Whenever we speak of retirement we agree that our main desire is no bells, no dawn departures, and no deadlines until we’re lying dead, and we just made our first official retirement-inspired purchase together, and what was it, a freakin’ calendar. What, are we crazy? I thought that dates were what we wanted to escape? And it’s huge and it will be on my retired-guy’s den wall staring at me. What if it goes empty? Will we feel hollow?”

As only Susan can do, she calmed me with a grip and a grin. She took my waving wrist and held it down on the table, next to the chowder. “Sweetheart. Calm down. Yes, it’s an irony, a big one. I see it, and we can cancel the order if you want. But it’s a good irony. It’s not our work schedule, remember, it’s our Schedule of Fun. We’ll get colored markers and we’ll fill it with great adventures. The days of the week won’t matter, just the numbers.”

“Our days are numbered?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, we better get a move on. Good thing we have two-day delivery.”

“I’ll get the markers.”

“What about our Bucket List? Should we buy a bucket?”

“Don’t be a wise guy.”

“Hey,” I said, enjoying our Friday afternoon spontaneous decision to go out for lunch. “I just thought of another great irony. Here’s one we’ve done to ourselves, or I’ve done. I’ve been counting down the weeks ever since January using Mondays only. I’d say, ‘Only 20 Mondays to go,’ or “Only 15 Mondays.’”

“I know,” said Susan. “That’s sort of why I wanted to celebrate today. We just passed 10 Mondays this week.”

“I know,” said I. “That’s what I’m talking about. We are counting down Mondays. Why? How depressing is that? Why concentrate on Mondays? We need to start counting down Fridays from here on in. This is our tenth Friday.”

“Cheers,” said she, and we clinked our martini glasses. “So, what shall we do next Friday?”

“Gee, I don’t know. We could hit another restaurant or go to a matinee.”

“Oh, I know. We could go wine tasting.”

I took her forearm. “Whoa. Guess what I just realized? You know what we need? A calendar. We need a calendar to get us from here to June.”

“We have Prime. You have two-day delivery. We can use our Schedule of Fun starting next week.”

Having a huge easy-write Schedule of Fun calendar placed prominently in the center of our den wall with colored markers Velcro taped nearby might just be a positive incentive. We will feel compelled to fill it up. How can we sit on our duffs and squat our lives away with this big blue-and-white reminder of our numbered days shining down on us, catching the morning sun that hits that wall? We would feel hollow, perhaps.

I’m engaging in a few other countdown rituals just to make the next 10 weeks interesting, like my own advent calendar.

I am throwing out one manila folder per week, sometimes more. I’ve instituted Food Fridays in my journalism class. We have doughnuts, bagels, or burritos once a week. Every Monday morning my phone alarm goes off and plays eight seconds of Purple Haze.

Keeping a retirement calendar, I’ve decided, is a good idea, not because I have anywhere to be on Monday mornings, but to remind me that while the names of days and months are at last irrelevant, the numbers still matter.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.