Fourteen years into retirement and I just figured out I’m allergic to a firm, structured, committed schedule. I’m in awe of my retired friends my age who volunteer on the same day at the same place for 10-plus years or take the same fitness class on the same day each week for years.

In awe, but that’s not me.

I am not critical of them. If anything, I’m a bit envious of the predictability and stability they have. They know what day of the week they shop, play bridge, volunteer with the animal rescue group, hike with friends.

Reduced chaos. Steady as she goes.

When I have committed to a steady diet of predictability, I also thrive. I see the benefits, calm in my life, stacking healthy habits, supported by daily routines.

Yet even though I thrive, eventually I feel claustrophobic.

So I quit schedules, untie the commitments that bind, and revel in the freedom of  unscheduled days.

What I am still learning as a retired 72-year-old is how to navigate this conflict –– the urge to create community, help make the world a better place and my need for spontaneity that gives me so much personal joy.

This isn’t a new dilemma.

When my husband and I first retired in 2010, we moved to a small Mexican village on the Pacific coast. Within the first year we helped supply veterinarian services to the village dogs, started an English language school for the local children, taught Zumba, and brought expats and village residents together for shared cultural cooking classes.

Even in our travels and adventures, I seek to connect and help the community I’m in. And it adds to the adventure.

When life got complicated in Mexico, we moved on to our next location, next adventure, next project, including my running for political office in upstate New York, where we had relocated to our family home.  Later, when we moved back to Northern California, I became a Restorative Exercise Specialist and starting teaching fitness to older adults. I became part of a tribe of women who hike and play together.

And then we moved on again, this time to a small town outside Portland, Oregon.

Throughout these moves and changes, I occasionally wondered, what was the matter with me? Why can’t I ‘grow up’, be ‘dependable’ or all those other ‘shoulds’ that seem simple for others.

I’ve discovered part of that conflict, at my age, is having an expectation my life can still mimic the freedom of summer, just as I felt when school let out each year. The glorious excitement of every June, July and August, the summer months of no plans, only possibilities. What other time in our life have we had the freedom to toss out the schedule and go to the lake, the beach, the mountain cabin and ignore adult issues – like schedules? And decisions?

A pivotal moment three years ago when we first moved to Oregon helped me define my internal conflict.

Two friends spontaneously invited me to join them on a hike to Beacon Rock the next morning.  I didn’t have many outdoor friends yet, I love to hike but didn’t feel confident hiking on my own. And I felt lonely from our move from California.

But I had a dental appointment to get my teeth cleaned, so I declined.

Driving to the appointment, I was in tears. Missing this chance to hike and connect felt huge, sad and lonely. I could have – maybe should have – canceled the appointment, paid the hygienist for her time, and hiked guilt free.

But I didn’t.

It was such a clear illustration that having the freedom, the time to say yes, is incredibly important to me. And that’s the bind. What is the balance between showing up as an adult, doing my part to save the world and still find the freedom for the joy of spontaneity?

So this is my current approach for a guilt-free solution.

First, taking summers off. Seriously. Revel in an empty appointment book.

Next, instead of beating myself up for not ‘adulting’ the way I think I’m supposed to, I can make shorter term commitments during the rest of the year that are less confining.

I could teach an 8-week balance class during the winter months. Or I could substitute teach.

I’ve joined hiking and paddling groups where I’m committed to going but I won’t be letting anyone down if I don’t go (unless I’ve committed to a race. I love teamwork!)

And if I get a better offer? What boxes would that have to check to make the grade?

That would include family, community, connection, time outdoors, new locations, new experiences, exercise.

Fourteen years into retirement, I don’t know how many more times I’ll get what feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity requiring an immediate pivot, but I want to be ready. Ready for a resounding yes.

Last month a close cousin passed away in upstate New York where I grew up. I haven’t attended many funerals because of the time and distance. It’s remote enough that travel requires a lot of time and multiple airline flights. Then there was usually the need to arrange substitutes for my classes, reschedule appointments, cancel dates with friends.

But in my newfound freedom, July was unscheduled! I simply made the decision, bought the airline ticket, and reveled in the freedom to go, stay, return.

When my husband and I cruised our 48-foot sailboat down the Pacific Coast to Mexico, our sons renamed us ‘subject to change’. We would have a plan. Then change a plan. Then make a new plan. Or revert to the original plan. It might have been based on wind or weather or an event. It all sounded reasonable to us. It still does. It’s the essence of retirement.

Right now, uncharted plans may shape into traveling for boots-on-the-ground, door-to-door voter registration in swing states for the next general election in November. Because I can.

And to continue to revel in the freedom of an unscheduled calendar as the ultimate freedom to say yes to ideas not yet imagined.