Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

One year, or as the song “Seasons of Love,” from Rent put it, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes...”

A year ago, as publisher and group editorial director of Chain Store Age, I ran a mid-to-high-single-digit million-dollar enterprise encompassing a monthly magazine, a Web site, e-newsletters and several conferences. Today, I run errands. A year ago I supervised two dozen associates. Today, I plan activities for one.

My last commute to the office at 425 Park Avenue took place a year ago today, June 18, 2009. It was a trip I made for more than 32 years, driving to the White Plains Transcenter parking garage, riding Metro North into Grand Central Terminal, walking up Park Avenue to 55th Street, taking the elevator to the 6th floor.

Forced retirement, even if welcomed, as it was by me, has confronted many of my demographic cohorts. The number of unemployed age 55 and over increased 331% between January 2000 and December 2009, going from 490,000 to 2,114,000, according to AARP. To paraphrase a lyric from the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s no great honor being a statistic.”

Yet, please don’t read this and wonder if I am depressed. I am not. I have no regrets about what happened. The economy tanked. Publishing tanked. Our area of coverage—retailing, specifically capital spending by retailers—tanked. We made cutbacks, within my group and within the whole company. They weren’t enough. The role of any manager is to prepare the next generation of management. I did my job well. Two associates were ready to take on my responsibilities. Sure, I would have liked to continue, but the prudent corporate move was to reduce overhead. I was treated fairly.

I’m often asked if I’d like to work full-time again. No, not really. I’ve paid my dues. Publishing is an especially brutal business these days. Not that it ever was a 9 to 5 job, but the Internet has made it even more of a round-the-clock profession. I do miss the recognition. Last week I participated in a retail industry panel discussion and was humbled to hear the other panelist describe how he followed my commentary over the years. For three decades I was the voice of Chain Store Age. Nothing, nothing was published without my seal of approval. But Chain Store Age was not mine to hand down to my family. It was my job, not my equity. In return for value received, I produced value. Call it rationalization, if you will, but I’ve come to the belief that at some point one has to say, “I have enough. Enough to do what I want to do. Enough to live the rest of my life in comfort. Enough to hopefully leave something to my children.” Each person will determine their level of “enough.” Hopefully, I’ve calculated correctly.

I enjoy most days. That’s no different than when I was working. Occasionally I do wish Gilda or some of my friends were already retired so we could have play dates. But even when I was employed my closest work-friends already had left the company. For most of my working life I ate lunch in restaurants with one or more of them. During the last few years I ate too many meals at my desk. Few things were as lonely as eating lunch by oneself. For some reason, it’s not as lonely in retirement.

In case you’re wondering, I keep fairly busy. I don’t sleep late. I usually get up within 30 minutes of Gilda’s departure for work sometime between 7 and 7:30. I rarely nap during the day. I don’t watch much television—usually a DVR’ed tape of the prior night’s Daily Show and maybe The Colbert Report during lunch, and perhaps an old movie. I write several hours most days (these blogs don’t show up mysteriously, you know). I do a little consulting work for a few companies. I exercise, mostly walking in the neighborhood. I run errands, do the shopping midweek to avoid weekend crowds. Once a week I deliver meals to homebound seniors. I don’t nosh—I weigh a few pounds less than a year ago. I play sous-chef for Gilda, prepping salad and other foods for her return from work—as I might have previously written, during our marriage we have divided the chores thusly: Gilda cooks (really well), we both eat (sumptuously), I clean. I am content.

I actually have one regret. I had hoped to read a book a week in retirement. Not even close. I won’t embarrass myself by detailing my paltry output, or should that be input? Whatever.