Happy Retirement!

I went to two retirement parties this week--my 60-year-old uncle's, and my own. For three months' service to Furnitureco, I got three pizzas and a Safeway cake. For 35 years of service in the saw shop of the lumber mill in Hinton, my uncle got a big party at a derelict hall, a piece of a giant metal bandsaw with "no matter what they say, we'll always miss you" written onto it with a welder, and a cake that looked like children's celebrity Bob the Builder, holding a hammer, with a big finger-swipe through his face where my nephew attempted to steal the sugar rock that was his left eye.
His party was a celebration of a lifetime of high-paying hard work, with a big pension, and medical coverage and all that other shit you get for working somewhere since 1971. Mine was an excuse for the staff to order pizza. I mean, they were sad to see me go, because I took on the role of "main heavy lifter" to avoid the monotony of the digital inventory system--basically a lazer typewriter you shoot at barcodes while the machine chirps or squaks at you, depending on whether or not... well, really, it's so boring, I know there's no point explaining it. It's a gun with a screen. It counts. Boring. So I moved furniture. Avoided the guns.
But that made me the best worker in history. In the Alberta economy, just showing up is a great way to impress your boss. Not complaining about how you could make more elsewhere at the drop of a hat also earns love points with an employer so desperate that he has to give a job to everyone he interviews. But knowing what I was supposed to do and doing it independently was pretty good, too.
Whatever. Basically, I put my back into it, worked three or four months, and then unceremoniously retired. No benefits. No bonuses. No perpetual stability. Some street cred in the furniture industry and wicked abs (still fairly covered by fat) are my main benefits.
So now, while my uncle is going to work on his house and travel a little eventually with my aunt, I'm going to work on my trailer, try to get over the gut-wrenching panic I get when I think of my newly-abandoned income, and wonder what I'm going to do when I get back to Halifax this time.
Oh, and I'm also going to take the wickedest roadtrip in history. Forgive my use of the term "wickedest," but after three months moving furniture, not writing, and not having anything to think about, I'm still getting the neurons back up to full functionality.
So, I guess I'm leaving in a few days. Delayed. Disorganized. Watching the bank account hemmorhage as I catch up on deferred maintenance on my truck, trailer, and family relationships here in Edmonton. Then it's off to Calgary to drop the trailer. Then, with a light truck and a fistful of dollars, I'll roll to Vancouver, dork around with Nathan and Co., go back to Calgary, and get the trailer.
After that, it's wagons east, with no timeline or destination. I'll be your way soon, since there's nothing in Saskatchewan to stop for, I hear.
And I might cut through the States, though I think that might be a little much. Scary.