Today I discovered something that has officially kicked my financial plan in the shins and run off laughing. I’m turning 44 this October, and lately I’ve been floating on this sweet little fantasy of early retirement. The idea? Work two more years, then dramatically exit the workforce like a mic-drop moment. That was the plan. Grand. Elegant. Dreamy.
To make this dream a reality, I’ve been building a humble little nest egg—nothing luxurious, just enough to survive on (read: afford coffee and wifi). I wasn’t aiming for yachts and caviar. More like a cozy corner, some peace and quiet, and the ability to read all day without guilt or pants.
I even made an Excel sheet. A spreadsheet, people. With formulas. According to it, by 46, I’d be free as a bird. I’ve even told people—with confidence—that I was done with the rat race. That I’d cracked the code.
Then boom. Plot twist.
I found out today that the math doesn’t math. Or life doesn't life. Either way, the train to Early Retirement Land has been delayed. Though not indefinitely. Possibly derailed. Possibly bamboozled.
And weirdly... I’m not even surprised. Is it mental fortitude or me just permanently dazed by life’s nonsense? I felt a pang of disappointment to last over a goodnight sleep. Then I sighed, made a cup of coffee, and told myself, Well, that’s just typical. Onward, woman. I need to draw out a new plan. A plan B.
When something like this happens, and it often does, I have one go-to life strategy: move on. No point lingering or pondering. What's there to ponder? Just. Keep. Moving.
I’ve got energy. I’ve got coffee. I’ve got a brain that works (most days). I’ve got some creativity to throw around. So maybe—just maybe—the universe is saying, “Not so fast woman. I've got use for you. You’ve still got work to do.” Fine. FINE. I’ll stay. Like I have a choice.
Honestly, I don’t even know when I started fantasizing about laying low. I’ve been walking around saying things like, “Life is more than work,” and “I studied for 20 years, I’ll work for 30, then I’m out.” I even told people I wanted to “do other things.” What other things, you ask? I have no idea. Become a sloth? Sit and stare? Find a new hobby? Have an existential meltdown over a coffee stain? Who knows!
Truth is, when I’m not doing anything, I spiral. I start questioning the meaning of life, my existence, the colour beige. So maybe the quiet life isn’t actually for me, at this moment, although I still find it incredibly attractive from a safe distance. It's classic human contradiction: when we’re working, we dream of resting. When we’re resting, restlessness seeps in and we start cleaning out inboxes for fun.
So maybe it’s a good thing my retirement plan has hit a speed bump the size of Mount Everest. Maybe I’m meant to keep going a wee bit longer. Maybe the universe is nudging me. It knows something I don’t. Maybe it assumes I'm just not ready to be bored full-time.
So, here’s the new plan, revised and reality-checked:
- Work a little longer than planned. Hopefully doing things that don’t destroy my soul.
- Keep the “work brain” turned on—but not too loud.
- Keep learning weird, useful, or delightfully useless stuff.
- Keep writing and pretending it’s research.
- Stay healthy-ish. Be happy-er.
- Forget early retirement. I now look up to people working into their 80s. That’s the new #goal. Not the 35-year-old who retired, just so they can rub it on my face.
- Stay upbeat—plan B cannot fail.
- No more lying around like a sad croissant. Look alive.
- Keep dreaming. Keep moving.
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