“Retirement.” A word I can hardly spell anymore, it seems so abstract and impossible – like a science-fiction concept from a tattered old novel. In the classic film Blade Runner, “retirement” is the term used to describe the brutal ritual of future cops executing rogue androids called replicants (which auto-correct just tried to turn into “Republicans” against my will, though maybe Google Docs has a Freudian slip function now).
The Blade Runner version of retirement strikes me as more feasible for modern humans – getting blasted by a jackbooted assassin with a phallic-looking blaster – than the traditional process. Actual retirement – cocktails on the beach in between golf games – is as distant as the farthest known star. As glamorous as my life must seem to you, dear reader, it is not that at all. Like most creative types who never bothered to learn to code, I scrape by every month, white-knuckling until the next heaven-sent direct deposit.
Getting paid as a writer can sometimes feel akin to a deus ex machina, a random act of God that lets you pay your electric bill. The idea of saving any of my income is laughable these days, unless you count the change hidden in my couch cushions. Surely, I can play a few games of pinball with all that before I’m escorted off to debtor’s prison. Such is life in a world with inflation, sky-high fuel prices, and automation of even the most basic tasks. The minute they devise a chatbot to humorously comment on the news, I’m fully screwed.
I wouldn’t even think about retirement at all if it wasn’t for some current events that gave me pause. The famed Spanish bullfighter José Antonio Morante de la Puebla returned after a year’s retirement to sold-out crowds who paid good money to witness him reclaim his lofty place in his chosen profession. His return was heralded by bullfighting fans, but that goodwill was cut short when he was horrifically gored during his most recent exhibition, causing him to suffer significant injuries. Was it more shocking that his return would go so badly or that it even needed to happen at all? Retirement doesn’t seem so bad to me. Why give that up?
I’d love to retire. The thought of not working every waking second, of not feeling pressure to produce for the good of the capitalist machine, is undeniably appealing. I could read every book I’ve been putting off, learn a new skill, maybe even finally clean my bathroom. The sky’s the limit. But it seems like a lot of elderly people aren’t getting the hint, especially in Washington.
The average age of a United States congressperson is dropping, but remains relatively high – representatives at 57.5 years and senators at a positively musty 64.7, according to a Pew Research analysis from 2025. Retirement age in the United States, defined by the year when a person can start collecting full social security benefits, is 67. Iowa senator Chuck Grassley is a ripe 92 years old and recently underwent a surgery to remove gallstones. By contrast, Bernie Sanders is practically doing cartwheels at 84.
What could possibly be the motivation to shamble out of bed every morning and work? To “serve” the people? How effective can one be when you have to step out from the Senate floor to have fluid drained from a vital organ every few months? Is it ego? Is it financial gain? I won’t speculate on matters I have no frame of reference for. I have no power, no fortune to amass, and a perfectly functioning gallbladder.
Even if I can never know the truth, I still have to wonder why being trotted around Washington DC is preferable to literally anything else. Donald Trump is about to turn 80 years old this June, and he continues to go to extraordinary lengths to not only keep his current job, but to also reject the very notion of aging.
During a speech last week, Trump said that while senior citizens love him for his policies, he is, in fact, not a senior citizen. Even if we ignore the legal eligibility for government old-age benefits, I think it’s fair to say that a man in his 80s is quite elderly. But for many baby boomers and gen X Americans, it’s more advantageous to move the goal posts on being decrepit.
An opinion article in the New York Times that was published last year from Ken Stern, the founder of the straightforwardly named “Longevity Project”, suggests that being 65 is not “old” because age is not defined by actual years passing, but how easy it is for you to play sports. “I’m 62, active, healthy and still working,” Stern brags to all the flaccid grandpas. “But in the last few weeks, I’ve been shamed on the pickleball court and at the gym by people in their 70s, and also visited with a 70-year-old whose body had betrayed her so much that the simplest acts of showering and toiletry are far beyond her capacities.” To be shamed on the pickleball court must be the lowest indignity any high-net-worth individual can imagine. How can I be old, he asks, if I can still play sports? Should that be the test for whether or not you should retire? If you can smash a hollow ball with a plastic racket? If so, maybe it’s my turn to pack it in.
The concept of longevity is not just an obsession, it’s big business. Books, podcasts and TikTok videos about how to stay young abound in our toxic cultural miasma. We listen to wealthy so-called “biohackers” such as Bryan Johnson who want to live forever. But to what ends are we striving for immortality? To go to a job every day? To make even more money that will be useless the minute all the serums and peptides and hormone treatments stop being effective?
The replicants of Blade Runner didn’t want to live forever, they just wanted to live a few days longer. Why? Not because they loved moving cargo on the off-world colonies. They wanted to live longer because they sought some kind of purpose or spiritual transcendence. They hoped to find meaning in their servitude. They didn’t just want to live. They wanted to live in freedom. Retirement, in both reality and in the fantasy of the movies, is a chance – however long it might last – to experience life without burdens. That anyone would be given that option and reject it is inexplicable.
But hey, maybe I’ll figure it out when I can afford to pay my electric bill on time again. In the meantime, I’m going to take up pickleball.
Dave Schilling is a Los Angeles-based writer and humorist
