Sexy talk

Are there two sexier words than “Retirement Seminar”?

That was how I spent last night with DD. Va-va-voom.

It was an exciting event for the Boomer in the relationship … less for the Gen Xer.

When he told me he’d booked two seats at the seminar he tried to make it sound enticing by telling me there would be free nibbles.

Much as I love nibbles, it did not get my motor running.

The seminar was held at Dee Why RSL. Yep the phwoar factor just kept on rising.

The nibbles were ham and cheese sandwiches. Be still my beating heart.

The over 55s attendees were truffling excitedly at the snack table. I can’t really talk because I filled my plate too.

DD bought me a glass bucket of pink wine to cheer me up.

It reminded me about asking for a pink wine at a bar last week … and the waitress saying there wasn’t any and me saying that’s weird cause my partner just bought me a Rosé and the waitress saying “oh, yeah, we’ve got Rosé” and me looking like this …

I was pulling a similar face when the retirement seminar presenter started extrapolating what a wage of $42,000 looked like on the retirement scale. Very low prospects for expedition cruising.

There was lots of sexy talk about salary sacrifice and carrying forward concession amounts and personal deductible contribution.

DD even gave me some homework. He wrote “Check risk/growth profile – suggest mod/high” on my notepad.

It has something to do with my superannuation fund. I’m a bit blurry on the next steps.

Mercifully the retirement seminar only went for 60 minutes, then we ducked downstairs for some combination hor fun in the bistro beside this very cool fish tank …

I am not really the planning-for-retirement type. I am more the hoping-to-win-the-lottery type.

I wasn’t always this way. I was super focussed on my finances. I flipped properties like a pro and paid my bills on time.

But somehow I lost my way. It might have been after I had kids and the responsibilities of life got a bit more overwhelming.

It also doesn’t help that I am allergic to filing.

Well, not allergic, but I have literally never done it and I’m not sure I have it in me.

Have I ever told you about Cholera Gulch?

That was the nickname my ex gave the space between my bed and the wall when I lived in a terrace in Paddington in my twenties. I chucked everything down there and prayed the cleaning fairies would sort it out.

The cleaning fairies didn’t oblige, hence my ex’s fear of a cholera outbreak.

He was a fine one to talk, as the pile of newspapers in his loungeroom in Newcastle’s East End were like an archaelogical dig, with dirty plates discoverable in the various layers.

These days I am more tidy. There is no Cholera Gulch, just a few very cluttered cupboards, a storage room we will never speak of again and a bathroom that could do with a good scrub.

As for my personal takeouts from the evening … I’ve decided to take a deep breath and put some of the proceeds from the sale of my apartment into my super fund. I have no idea how such things are done or what the steps are to accomplish it, but I’ve added the task to my very long to-do list (with an asterisk next to it to remind me to sort it out before the end of the financial year to maximise the tax benefits).

I still can’t believe I’ve been to my first retirement seminar. It made me feel like this tweet:

Song of the day: ABBA “Money, money, money”