The Golden Age of Charli

Prologue

I jerked awake, arms and legs tangled in the sheet and comforter, my pillows in a heap on the floor. What happened? What did he say?

Where am I? Oh no, not again. Not another nightmare, another shadow on my day.

If I were wearing a red-bordered name tag, it would read, “Hello! My name is Charlotte Angstrom Eddy McAntic.” At school, I’d enrolled with my given name, but I’d changed it to Charli as a preteen. Now I answered to hon, Mom, Auntie, “Where are you?” or “Help!”

When I had been a teenager, at the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, my friends and I had been convinced that we wouldn’t live, or didn’t want to live, past the age of thirty. But of course I had survived to cross that infamous, untrustworthy threshold. I’d spent my thirties, forties, and even my fifties in peace and harmony aligning marriage, mortgage, careers, and children.

I’d married Pud, a no-nonsense, hardworking, establishment-type guy. Somewhat surprisingly, based on his serious, no-frills demeanor, he’d parlayed a math degree into an exciting career supporting open-wheel auto racing. I’d started out as a free spirit but had ended up taking the more traditional route. I’d earned a law degree, focused on contracts, and then dedicated myself to my favorite jobs—wife and mother. Our two boys were young adults now, almost launched, although still within the orbit of Planet Home.

Thanks to love, the stars, and a little help from my friends, the seasons gently went round and round.

So why was I having bad dreams?

1
The Golden Years

No, no, come back! What was he saying?

“It’s over. I love golf. I am going to live at the clubhouse and golf all the time.”

Please stay! Give me a chance!

Wait, what is happening? Where am I?

Stop! Wake up! I was groggy and unsettled. Is Pud leaving, or was it a nightmare? The scene had been so vivid; it had been as if I were streaming a high-definition episode of my life. Slowly, my terror faded. I timidly opened my eyes. Crazy dream! Whew, everything’s all right now. Or is it?

Golden years of retirement? A time to savor the sunset years together? Where’s the gold? And more importantly, where’s my husband?

Every day, my husband cruised down the retirement path—straight to the golf course. I was stuck at home without him. Pud had embraced his new life, but he had stopped embracing me. I wasn’t part of his happily ever after. I awoke to my daily reality show, Retirement, the Twilight Zone.

My day had dawned with a jolt, and I was not used to such a turbulent start. Before the arctic chill of Pud’s retirement had blown into my life, I’d sprung out of bed every morning with a smile on my face and exclaimed, “Thank you, God, for another beautiful day!” Sixteen hours later, as my husband and I would turn in for the night, I would close with, “Another great day!” In between these upbeat bookends had stretched the hopeful gift of my day, waiting for me to fill it with abundant possibilities.

My daily affirmations were not formal prayers or religious moments but personal cheers of thanks and joy for another day of opportunities. I rejoiced about all the bounty that the new day would bring. I enjoyed caring for my family and my home, volunteering, and seeing my friends. My life may have been old fashioned and humdrum by today’s standards, but I liked trying out a new recipe, weeding the garden, and texting my sons. What could be better? Well, one thing could be a lot better. I wanted to share my days with my husband too.

I aimed to be joyful. Most of my screen names and usernames contained some form of the word joy to remind me every day to be a positive person. I believed that something wonderful was always around the next corner. From a first grader who had daydreamed during reading circle and then discovered an exciting game on the playground to a shy teen who had bought an ice-cream cone and then flirted for the first time with the guy behind the counter, I’d always known that something thrilling would be around the next turn.

But now, my husband was newly retired, and some of my home responsibilities had eased up, as well. Yet my personal positivity was challenged. Was there really something amazing ahead for us at this point in our lives? I didn’t even know how many miles or corners remained for us, let alone thrills.

Pud and I had been in harness for over thirty years, creating a home, raising a family, being responsible. After all that, I had to admit that I was bewildered by the way Pud and I were getting along now. Not only was Pud leaving me and heading to the golf course morning, afternoon, and early evening; even when he was at home, he was quiet and withdrawn. We didn’t talk very much, and I didn’t feel close to him. When he was away at the golf course, I was lonely. When he was home, I was even lonelier.

We seemed to be at a distance from each other. We were like people passing each other on a walk, smiling politely and saying nothing beyond “Hi,” or like acquaintances waving across a busy restaurant. We were cordial but not close—and certainly not husband-and-wife close anymore.

Who was this stranger in my house? I suppose when Pud had been working and I had been more involved with my home and children, we had grown used to going our different ways. Pud had traveled so much for his job that we literally had been physically apart for much of the time. Had we also separated emotionally through the years?

I’d had high hopes that when Pud retired, we would have fun together. But what exactly should we do? Just take it easy and binge watch multiple TV seasons? Or have contests to see who could read the smallest print without reading glasses, or who could count his or her pills into the plastic compartments faster?

I didn’t seriously expect that we would spend dreamy hours of bliss in twin hot tubs sighing at the ocean view like in the TV commercials, but I did crave some romance now that we had time together after the busy years. I yearned to hold hands as we smiled and looked deeply into each other’s eyes. I desired to lovingly stroll together into our golden years. Pud was strolling, all right—hand in hand with a golf club.