Here’s an important question. Will you have enough money to live comfortably when it’s time to retire? Actually, scratch that. Here’s an even more important question. Will I have enough money to live comfortably when it’s time to retire?
It’s a question that’s worth asking, especially if, like me, you are haplessly stumbling toward your mid-sixties with no clear goals and no plan for the future whatsoever other than the half-formed notion that you’d like to make it to the pub on Friday if possible. And oh yeah, wouldn’t it be nice if you didn’t have to spend the rest of your life collecting carts at the grocery store?
Retiring is expensive. You need money. Quite a lot of money. The gravity of the situation was brought home to me last week while I was slogging my way through my 2025 tax return (oh, the memories!) It turns out I have enough unused contribution room on my RRSP to fund the purchase of a mid-sized airline. But sadly I have so little money that I can’t even, well, I can’t even afford to pay someone else to do my tax return.
There’s always the Canada Pension Plan. I’m a big fan of the CPP, but even there I have a problem. What you get out is determined by what you put in. I didn’t start making contributions until I was 24 on the not unreasonable grounds that I didn’t live in Canada. There’s another gap in my contribution history from the five years I spent at university while I was in my thirties. Hey, it was a tough course and I didn’t want to rush things. Anyway, after that I got a job as a junior reporter with wages so low that my CPP contributions were virtually zero anyway … I think the thrill of getting my photograph in the paper every week was supposed to be reward enough for my efforts. After all that … you get the picture, and as pictures go, it ain’t particularly pretty.
So, what’s a boy to do?
It’s not that I don’t like working. OK, well maybe it is a bit. But it’s more that I’m starting to feel, if not actually old, then rather less young than I used to. I’ve still got some working years left in me, but I can see a time when I’ll be ready to spend my days sitting on the deck composing long and frequently incoherent letters to my Member of Parliament on a variety of issues, none of which I fully understand, before hiking my pants up somewhere in the direction of my armpits and heading off for my evening meal at 4 p.m.
So how do I get there? How do I put away sufficient dosh over the next couple of years to be able to keep myself and the current Mrs. Long in the necessities of life (Preparation H, gin and Maalox as I understand it) through our declining years? It is, as I said earlier, a question worth asking. And, if I had to do things over again, it’s a question I would probably have asked myself before things went quite this far.
