Third time’s a charm, or so I’ve always heard. In this case, “third time” applies to my decision to retire yet again from the field of education. And maybe knit a bunch or sweaters, or stare anxiously at my kids, or grow asparagus, and try not to lose my ever-lovin’, blue-eyed mind.

And let us not forget, I am that teacher who got the blues every summer. I used to describe it as a mini retirement. And every time, as soon as I was getting into my stride of keeping myself busy in meaningful ways, here came the start of the new school year, with its requisite adjustments.

What is it about “doing nothing” that people so earnestly profess to desire the opportunity to do, yet really don’t like? Retired teachers brag about sleeping late, having no papers to grade and nowhere to be, while those still working roll their eyes in apparent envy. Who is lying to whom?

Notice I haven’t forgotten my English teacher roots, and can still tell the difference between “who” and “whom.” In another generation or so, that distinction will most likely be entirely lost. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

But I digress.

So what does retirement mean? The etymology of this English word teaches me that it has nothing to do with being tired. It just means something along the line of withdrawing or pulling back. Of course, I never get tired of mentioning that the Spanish word for retirement is “jubilar,” which shares the same root as “jubilation.” Sometimes, I find that charming, while on other days it’s more of a bitter irony.

So whither from here? I am pleased to note that, as a society we have evolved into the general understanding that people do indeed need meaningful things to do, and that when people talk about sitting on the beach drinking mai tais for the rest of time, they are mostly saying what they think people expect them to say. And may I mention how fortunate I am to be born in this century, and not one in which a woman who showed signs of emotional distress would be more or less forcibly confined to her bed? (If you haven’t read “The Yellow Wallpaper,” written in 1892 by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, please do so at once.)

Meanwhile, back to the 21^st century. Do I keep looking for meaningful projects? Keep my heart as still as possible as I navigate this transition? Bring to bear every anti-anxiety strategy that has ever been invented? Never forget that I am worthy? Scour the internet and community for post-retirement jobs?

To all but the last one, I give an unqualified yes. As for the last, sure, but first I need to minute to catch my breath and find my feet.