Retiring Romance

Recently my husband and I sat down with a retirement specialist to discuss our financial future. I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident. I am the consummate multi-tasker. Not that it wasn’t romantic. Especially digging through our files to find copies of what we fondly refer to as “coffee money,” aka our combined 401k accounts, Roth IRAs, and statements from some option we bought during one or another bubble.

Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.

Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”

Because it was a date, and because my husband was coming from work, where he is still expected to wear something a notch up from yoga pants and flip flops, I dressed for our appointment with the banker. As I pulled on big girl slacks, I thought I’d better not gain weight, or lose it either. Ever. These may be the last nice clothes I’d ever own.

We were greeted, served coffee, and showed to an office where our retirement specialist explained to us the process of mapping out best case and acceptable case scenarios for our non-working future. We spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time discussing the age at which my husband would retire.

“Fifty-five is ideal,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s in ten years. You have no hobbies. What would you do with the rest of your life?” And, I thought, I’ll be fifty. My need for cosmetic procedures will just be ramping up and those are not cheap.

“Okay, sixty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“You know,” the nice woman with the calculator said, “there are considerable benefits to waiting until you’re sixty-seven to stop working.”

“Ha!” I said. Such a romantic.

After a brief discussion of Social Security and far fewer questions about our saving and spending habits than I expected, we came to the “extras” section of the interview. This is where my husband asserted his need in retirement to buy a boat—a big one.

“Except I want to buy it now,” he told our trusted counselor.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll work that into the calculation.” She turned to me. “One last question—how do you want me to treat your income? Should I count it as extra or include it in the overall forecast.”

“Put it toward my world travels,” I told her.

“Your travels?”

“Best case scenario.”

She turned to John. “Did you know about the traveling?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t like my boat.”