When I was still teaching, I used to fantasize about retirement.

In my imagination, it was a magical land of unlimited, unscheduled time — a bright tunnel of endless hours stretching toward infinity. In that perfect world, I could take a two o’clock powernap every day. The gardens were gloriously weedless, my nails were always manicured, and my closets were organized by color and season. Any puppy I owned would be fully potty trained, nap on command, and certainly never jump on guests or smear my clothes with the peanut butter left on her chin.

In this retirement utopia, long afternoons were devoted to novels and cold drinks. I would never rush or multitask — certainly not shine a flashlight at 10 p.m. while clutching a leash, praising Sunnie, and wrestling open a poop bag with one hand.

Nearly sixteen years have passed.

I have yet to enter this utopia.

This morning I woke at 4:30 — an hour earlier than usual — because there was simply too much I wanted to accomplish before tennis at 7:30. Wet laundry from the night before needed to be transferred to the dryer. Family is coming soon, so I want to plan meals and assemble a grocery list that doesn’t rely heavily on frozen pizza. Writing projects are waiting. Presentations for upcoming book events need polishing.

And, as readers of my last two columns know, my husband and I headed to Gulf Shores, Alabama with an extra passenger—a puppy.

Sunnie arrived with the boundless energy of a child hyped up on candy. My days are now crammed full of walks, playtime, puppy classes, and spontaneous sprints across the floor when I notice her “posturing” in a way that suggests I should have taken her outside minutes ago.

Entire chunks of time vanish as she attempts Olympic-worthy maneuvers to extract the final smear of peanut butter from her Kong toy or gets herself into crazy positions.

When she is quiet, I try to get work done.

When she is too quiet, I immediately abandon the work to see what trouble she’s in. 

Between picking Sunnie up for a cuddle and receiving enthusiastic kisses, I have a realization.

My days are busy because they are jammed full of life.

Sixteen years ago, I pictured retirement handing me endless, lazy hours. Instead, it has delivered hectic mornings, sandy floors, sticky fingers, lack of sleep, and connections.

Today I’m off to a book event. Tomorrow I’ll meet new people on the tennis court. Soon I’ll hug my kids and grandkids.

Time may feel tight, but it is rich.

Yes, a quiet afternoon of leisurely reading in an immaculate — or at least moderately clean — house sounds lovely. But so does laughing as a puppy spins across the kitchen floor chasing her own tail. So does stepping onto a tennis court at sunrise. So does collapsing into a chair at day’s end with a warm, wiggly body curled against me.

Maybe life was never meant to slow down into a tunnel of , quiet stress-free hours.

Maybe it was always meant to be smeared with peanut butter from a puppy’s chin, echoing with laughter, activity, and the occasional squeaky toy.

I still wouldn’t mind a full night of uninterrupted sleep and floors that stay clean longer than twelve minutes.

But if the price is missing a puppy sprinting joyfully through the house with one stolen sock, I suspect I’ll keep choosing the chaos.

I’ve decided I’m too busy living to wait for utopia.

And honestly?

I’m okay with that.