MY WIFE AND I TOOK a hiking trip last fall that included wandering through the foothills of the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. The leaves were just starting to change colors, something I so badly miss living here in Texas. I returned exhausted and sore, yet mentally energized and invigorated. For the majority of the trip, we were untethered from technology: no cellphone service during the day, no newspapers or TV distractions, no political talking heads, and no e-mails requiring an immediate response. My rejuvenated mental state was partly due to the physical exertion, but also partly the result of escaping the constant deluge of news, financial and otherwise. You see, I’m a closet financial information junkie. Not a day goes by without checking the Dow’s and Nasdaq’s movements, looking for the best rates on certificates of deposit, or wondering when the Federal Reserve will lower interest rates. One of my favorite websites is finviz.com, a financial market visualization website. I check market data regularly and tabulate my net worth weekly. I rationalize my “need to know” as an effort to check that our portfolio really can sustain us through a 40-year retirement. Admittedly, even I find my behavior odd, especially since I don’t own any individual stocks. I have a plan in place, as described in earlier HumbleDollar articles. I contributed religiously to retirement accounts during my working years, stick to my investment strategy, and rebalance once or twice a year to my set asset allocation. My portfolio is predominantly comprised of a Boglehead-like mix of Vanguard stock and bond mutual funds. I also have a sprinkling of cash equivalents to help us weather retirement until we start Social Security. My mantra leans toward set it and then don’t mess with it. But as I see it, that doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on what’s happening in the wider financial world. I don’t watch the financial talking heads, and I’m rarely distracted by click-bait money articles. I chuckle when buddies discuss the latest hot stock or investing trend, and I get a kick when I hear people declare that they regularly beat the market. I’m content to simply match the market, accept my winnings, and let others swing for the fences. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t peek daily at stock and fund prices, market trends and movements, and financial press releases. The upshot: I decided to undergo a mental reset. I vowed not to look at markets or investment prices for 30 days. Lord knows I tried. The first day was easy. I set my phone screen-side down to alleviate distractions. I only read the opinion section of The New York Times. I tuned into the evening news late to avoid the market wrap-up report. I went to sleep that evening a happy camper, confident I could meet this self-imposed 30-day challenge. The next day was more challenging. The U.S. jobs report was released, and I was curious how this might influence the short-term rates set at the next Federal Reserve meeting. I took a deep breath, listened to tunes on Spotify and kept my cool. The third day was fine—until I woke up. Habits die hard. I sat down with my morning cup of Joe and opened my iPad. Muscle memory took over. Without a second thought, I placed a quick tap on a Safari bookmark to check changes in the 7-day yield of Vanguard Group’s money market settlement fund (symbol: VMFXX). Oops. My cat-like reflexes enabled me to hit the home button and look away before the page fully loaded. Of course, the next open tab was set for HumbleDollar's homepage. I was truly grateful that the exchange-traded fund price ticker was gone from the top of the page. But the news’ siren call remained strong, and I knew that it would be best not to surf my usual sites this morning. Perhaps I’d spend the rest of the day gardening. The fourth day was abysmal. I had a doctor’s appointment and, naturally, the doctor was delayed due to an unscheduled patient procedure. I was stuck in the waiting area for 45 minutes longer than anticipated. The only seat available was directly across from the muted TV, with yet another insidious stock ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Curses. For a moment, I actually wished I was at the optometrist getting my pupils dilated.  I concentrated on playing solitaire on my phone, a game I loathe. My stress level and blood pressure were elevated, clear manifestations of withdrawal. I gave up my quest on the fifth day, knowing with certainty my cardiologist would approve the decision. My self-enforced abstinence didn’t seem worth the mental effort. After a moment of self-reflection, I realized there are worse follies than feeling shackled to the world’s economic pulse. I tried to feel a modicum of success by acknowledging I reached 15% of my 30-day goal. Author James Clear detailed in Atomic Habits how behavioral changes are more successful when done in small steps. I’ll consider breaking my goal into smaller pieces, such as checking financial news only once a week or updating my spreadsheets less frequently. Change can be hard, but I’ll try—though it might be easier to simply take more camping trips outside of cellphone tower range. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

MY WIFE RECENTLY traveled to Connecticut for a week to help with loose ends following her brother-in-law’s unexpected heart surgery. I was left to fend for myself, with only three hard-boiled eggs, two ounces of nearly expired low-fat milk, half a jar of gourmet salsa and a moldy cucumber to keep me company. Boredom quickly set in. For some inexplicable reason, I had an uncontrollable urge to spend money. The first activity that entered my forebrain was visiting a casino. But I know from experience that, while enjoyable, this isn’t a particularly profitable choice of entertainment. Besides, the nearest casino is three hours away. The gas alone would cost more than I wished to spend. On top of that, now that I’m officially retired, the amount I had in mind to gamble was not a justifiable cost. Sure, I budget some “blow the dough” funds for fun. But giving money to a large for-profit gambling establishment isn’t how I want my dough blown. Instead, I willed my mind to envision what I could purchase—and permanently own—with the equivalent amount of dollars. Yes, I know, this simply transfers the guilt of spending from an experience to a hedonistic purchase. I had my eye on woodworking tools, and had recently discovered a new-to-me tool supply outlet just a couple of miles away. I felt like a kid in a candy store. I bought a few tools—not particularly expensive—but ones that still made me feel pampered by the purchase. My consumeristic urges were momentarily dampened. To make sure I squashed them completely, I stopped at the local dollar store on the way home and bought a fistful of frivolous items that were also in the tool-like category: some slightly dulled disposable knife blades, almost expired batteries and brightly colored duct tape. Oh yes, and coconut water. Everyone needs coconut water in their man-cave workshop, right? Alas, I awoke the next day with the same urge to spend. I needed a diversion. My solution was to hop in the car and drive in the opposite direction of any shopping mall or big box store. Just drive west, then turn south when the road curves. Leave the big city and follow the mostly paved farm-to-market narrow roads. Just keep driving until I see billboards spouting ideas and products that are unique to smaller towns and counties, like tractor sales and hybrid corn. Two hours into my trip, I serendipitously spotted a sign for the local county’s birding preserve. Being a biologist, I figured this would be a great adventure to get my mind off spending gobs of money. It was only 15 minutes away, or three miles as the crow flies, in the next county over. Off I went. The placid drive between towns was itself worth the price of the excursion, which I can only describe as a real-life Norman Rockwell painting of bygone America. I passed farmlands, gorgeous with crops pushing through recently plowed soil. The smell of freshly spread manure was palpable, yet also wonderful for opening up the sinuses. The neatly planted fields stood in stark contrast to unkempt yards, where weathered paint peeled gently away from wooden framed homes. Inviting porches stood at a five-degree tilt, bending to the gravity of time and weather. Each house had a small vegetable garden and a dog of unknown breed, as well as an RV, this prized possession gleaming from under a shaded awning. At times, a rusted Chevy with deflated tires could be seen peeking from the side yard. I’ve learned two things from my experiences driving through little towns with populations smaller than my high school. The first is to always obey the speed limit. A speeding ticket in rural Texas is vastly higher than the day’s blow-the-dough budget. The second rule is to remember the first. I arrived at the nature center and gladly paid the $5 entrance fee, since I was eager to hike the trails. For such occasions, I keep hiking boots and a bright red long-sleeved shirt in the car’s trunk, just in case I get hit with the hiking urge. I parked my SUV, ducked behind the raised trunk gate and quickly changed shirts—only to notice a few indigenous townsfolk watching me dress. Gee, it’s a good thing I completed that one set of sit-ups during the pandemic. No matter. The birding was unique, the highlight being a sighting of cardinals whose plumage was a brighter shade of red than my shirt. Priceless. My retirement goals include trying eateries in unlikely places. Taking a chance, and always on the lookout for good fish and a slightly tangy margarita, I stopped at a colorful Tex-Mex restaurant. The place was a genuine find. Chips and salsa were fantastic, and the prices suggested I could feast to my heart’s content at a reasonable price compared to my usual haunts. I had hoped to engage the waiter in conversation and learn more about the town, but he wasn’t keen on small talk. Or perhaps I should have changed shirts after my birdwatching workout. When I inquired about the fish tacos, he simply shrugged and said, “Lefty only brought us catfish this morning.” I pictured Lefty as an outdoorsman, scouring the nearby bayou for today’s catch. Perhaps his nickname was born from being a phenom southpaw pitcher in high school. More likely it stemmed from his using an old-fashioned noodling technique for bare-handed catching of catfish. Or perhaps he owned that year-round fireworks shanty I passed on the way into town. Best not to dwell. By then, I was exhausted and ready to return home. I took another circuitous route, only to come across acres of cotton fields now converted to solar and wind energy. The sight was jaw-dropping. I was especially awed by the graceful nature of the wind turbine’s rotor blades, majestic in size and physical form. It was inspiring to witness the contrast of old and new, juxtaposed in the most unlikely of places. The experience was memorable, and my urge to blow the dough was completely vanquished. The total cost of the trip was under $100, and that included fuel, a great meal and some local honey purchased on a whim. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

WE WERE DINING WITH close friends when the conversation turned to foreign travel. Stories were recounted of ventures to exotic and faraway lands filled with inspiring people, unique cultures and historic sites. My wife and I were humbled by the sheer number of trips our friends had taken. We were shy to admit that our international travel bucket was relatively empty, and we had embarrassingly few stories to share. This wasn’t a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. We simply had neither the time nor the opportunity for international adventures while we raised our twins. At the time, that type of vacation wasn’t a priority for our family. On a whim, during our drive home, I promised my wife we’d take an international trip. We had a huge list of destinations we dreamed of visiting. Besides, we include a travel line in our annual retirement budget. If now isn’t the time to venture forth, then when?   The following evening, while sharing a cheeseboard and Moscato on our patio, Lori reminded me of my promise. I knew where this conversation was heading. I told myself that now might be a good time to refill my glass of vino.   Years of training caused my well-oiled frugal senses to once again begin to tingle. But a promise is a promise, or so my wife tells me. And now that we were both retired, there was no reason not to tackle one of our bucket list items.   As if I needed more convincing, Lori suggested we do this to celebrate the one-year anniversary of my successful brain surgery. Alas, I couldn’t refute that logic. No additional arm twisting was required.   My wife suggested Costa Rica as a destination. I’ve been a card-carrying molecular biologist for three decades, and have always admired the treasure trove of biodiversity found in equatorial countries. So it was decided. I must confess to an irrational fear of vacationing, especially trips outside the U.S. Part of this stems from studying endemic micro-organisms for decades. Leishmania, leprosy, malaria, tuberculosis and schistosomiasis are part of my everyday vocabulary. I know too much about the mechanisms underlying rare diseases in underdeveloped countries. Yet, truth be told, I also feel overwhelmed and anxious when making travel plans. The 14th century French philosopher Jean Buridan described a scenario where a donkey placed equidistant between two equal bales of hay will starve due to indecision. I must be an ass, as I too have difficulty making a decision when there are too many choices available.   Therefore, I acquiesced to our travels, with the understood caveat that Lori would have to do the heavy-lifting and assemble a working itinerary. I don’t mind making suggestions now and again. But I’d rather be surprised upon arriving at our destination. Honestly, all I needed was a hike in a rainforest, plus breakfast with a steaming cup of Joe made from freshly harvested and roasted coffee beans.   Over the course of a week, I painfully watched my wife struggle with the excursion planning, picking from among the dizzying array of places to stay, coffee plantations to see, rivers to cross and mountains to climb. Finally, it was too much for me to bear. I felt her herculean efforts were far outweighing the trip’s potential fun. So, completely out of character, I insisted we utilize the services of a travel agent. I rationalized that our once-in-a-lifetime trip should not be weighed down by my frugal tendencies. Although it was mentally excruciating, I opened up our checkbook and gave the travel agent a working wish list and hopeful budget. It took five or six iterations of the desired activities, and three upward adjustments to the final cost, but we finally arrived at an itinerary we loved.   We never looked back. I paid for the trip, plus insurance, in advance. What helped most was an assumed mental outlook where I considered funds as already spent prior to beginning the trip. I realized that we have the freedom to travel, and should not feel guilty for dipping into funds for an expense already included as a line item in our annual budget.   I’m not writing this piece to detail our travels. Yes, it rained on our hike in the rainforest. Yes, the clouds limited an awe-inspiring view of the cloud forest. Yes, taking a night walk in a forest filled with nocturnal pumas, sloths, snakes and rodents of unusual size is quite exhilarating.   Rather, the purpose of this tale is to convey that I’m starting to understand the invigorating power of experiences and their worthiness as a use for money saved over a frugal lifetime. While frugality has its place, sometimes we need to let go of our funds and enjoy what life has to offer. After all, money is simply a tool and not an end in itself.   We were also able to target another high-priority item on our bucket list: random acts of kindness. Tips were included for almost every aspect of our travels. Still, it felt good to hand out additional and unexpected $5 or $10 bills to people who made our experience more enjoyable. While it didn’t make a significant dent in our lives, it made a world of difference to the recipients.   Finally, we noticed that the locals were content, with a markedly slower pace of life. Sundar Mohan Rao wrote a HumbleDollar article about an acquaintance who, when asked how he was faring, commented that any day above ground was a good day. The Costa Rican locals embrace that viewpoint. We heard two expressions multiple times. First was buena vida, which means good living. The second expression was pura vida, which connotes an easy and pure outlook on life. The locals took these expressions to heart, incorporating these ideals into everyday activities—a goal to which we can all aspire. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I RECENTLY SHIFTED from part-time work to complete retirement. I closed my laboratory, published my final research findings, and handed over my teaching duties to a bright-eyed, newly minted assistant professor. After I cut the career cord, my retired friends cautioned me that I’d likely experience a multifaceted, work-related dream, similar to those described by Andrew Forsythe in a recent article. They just didn’t tell me it might be a nightmare. Sure enough, a few nights after retiring, I had “the dream.” I found myself at my own surprise retirement party, conveniently held in my office, which—in a sort of Lewis Carroll way—had miraculously tripled in size. The distorted room was decorated with banners and balloons. Dozens of vibrant students and young professionals were in attendance. Oddly, I didn’t recognize more than a handful of individuals, and those I knew weren’t work colleagues. I stood distant and apart from the guests. No one ventured in my direction to shake my hand, clap me on the shoulder or give me a much-needed hug. Rather than interacting directly with me, the guests began taking my books, lab equipment and office supplies. Perhaps they desired keepsakes to remember me, although none asked me to sign any textbooks. They also took fancy chocolates and my espresso machine, items I never kept in my office in real life. I politely asked the dream people to return the chocolates, but no one could hear me. People continued to arrive and remove contents, ignoring my watchful gaze. Eventually, someone arrived with a dolly and took my desk, chair and computer. Oddly, the monitor and mouse were left behind. As the dream progressed, my former department chair informed me that I needed to say a few words about my career accomplishments. I excitedly thanked him for the opportunity to speak, even if it represented a public speaking experience at a moment’s notice. After a minute to gather and crystalize my thoughts, I was given a microphone. By the time I took the podium, however, everyone had disappeared. The office was now stripped to bare walls. The only remaining artifact was my framed graduate school diploma, which hung askew. I scanned the room, seeing only a few scattered chocolate bar wrappers and coffee beans. Eventually, an elderly gentleman with a broom arrived to sweep the floor. Retirement parties are supposed to be a confirmation of our achievements. Remember what Warren Buffett said about knowing who’s swimming naked when the tide goes out? Well, I felt like the guy waiting for the tide to reverse, wondering if I’d accomplished anything of value. To make matters worse, I suddenly sensed I’d lost my phone and car keys during the “celebration.” That pushed me over the edge. True anxiety set in. I hurriedly left the office, with my heart racing and blood pounding in my ears. I ambled aimlessly down empty corridors, hearing muffled conversations taking place behind closed doors. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally exited the complex. I soon found myself walking within a small wooded grove with a bubbling stream. At that point, I stood perfectly still and simply watched dragonflies flit about, just out of reach of hungry goldfish below the water’s surface. Eventually, my anxiety departed and I welcomed a returning sense of calm. Along with that feeling came an abstract satisfaction of discovering a world outside my work that was presumably always within reach, albeit unbeknownst to me before my departure. I awoke, realizing I had just experienced “the dream.” As a confirmation of survival, my phone was beside me on the nightstand, next to my keys. Now, I’m certainly not an expert on dream interpretation. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist—or a retired molecular immunologist—to see this dream as an expression of fear about losing my career identity. Perhaps it was an unconscious coping mechanism to help me move on to whatever new adventures await. Of course, the dream may also have been a manifestation of an undigested bit of beef that I ate the night before. I’ll likely never know. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

MOST READERS HAVE likely graduated from the vacations of their youth, where they saved a few dollars by sleeping on a friend’s hand-me-down couch. Still, some of my fondest travel memories were shaped by such frugal accommodation. I once traveled cross-country on a summer camp trip with 48 other teens, touring the greater U.S. in a converted Greyhound bus. It was an eye-opener, visiting such heralded landmarks as the Statue of Liberty and the St. Louis Gateway Arch, as well as must-see kitsch like the Cadillac Ranch and the world’s largest ball of twine. We stayed in a different motel every night. The trip’s operator held down costs by favoring motels in the cheaper part of town, with four teens to a room, where they shared two double beds. Such sleeping arrangements never bothered me. I especially loved the motel rooms with vibrating beds. Twenty-five cents went a long way back then. Now, any room with a coin-operated bedframe is a warning sign. Same for any suite that has a coin-operated dispenser in the bathroom. From there, my taste in overnight stays evolved. Shortly after marrying my bride of now 36 years, I vividly remember taking her to Bar Harbor, Maine, to visit Acadia National Park. We stopped at lighthouses and cider houses along the way, and—for one night—found a cheap roadside motel with a partly shorted-out neon vacancy sign. It felt reminiscent of the Bates Motel, with an off-beat, standalone cabin office complete with a wraparound colonial porch. The sleeping quarters were located upwind in a heavily wooded area located 100 paces behind the office. The entire complex felt like the Hitchcock movie, creepy with a sense of unresolved mystery. I didn’t realize that we’d need to upgrade our stay if we wanted a room with windows. We slept with the lights on. Eerier still was a relatively elegant 15-story hotel in Philadelphia. Upon exiting the elevator, we were greeted by a Joan Miró painting, exactly like the reprint my family had on the kitchen wall when I was a child. Gee, I always thought ours was an original. Unbeknownst to us, my son hit the wrong elevator button and we exited one story above our room. The same Miró greeted us as we left the lift. We walked to where our assigned room should have been, only to find our key unable to open the lock. We took the lift back to the main lobby to obtain a new key from the front desk. As people entered and exited the elevator, we saw the same Miró positioned on every floor. It shattered my view of fine art. I still have Shining-type nightmares about that stay, plus it skewered my view of my father’s fine art collection. On a trip to visit our son in Scotland, we spent a night in an inn just outside of London. To say the room was tiny would be an overstatement. We had to use a shoehorn to squeeze between the door and the bed frame. Indeed, there had been more square feet in the airplane lavatory than in our hotel room’s bathroom. I think we used the bidet as the shower, not realizing there was a communal wash area down the hall. The stupid things we Americans do. I was once invited by a former student to give a talk in the Netherlands. She was kind enough to take care of all the details for the trip, including reservations for an overnight stay. Much to my chagrin, the room was located in Amsterdam’s red-light district. I slept fully clothed on top of the sheets, not daring to look at what I might find beneath the covers. To this day, I still don’t know what I did to deserve that accommodation. I would like to think it was because my former student was working with a shoestring budget. More likely: She was still upset that our published scientific article didn’t appear in a higher-quality journal. Now that I'm retired, it's belatedly dawned on me that a good night's sleep is worth paying for. My past frugal lodgings may have made for better memories, but today's better accommodation leaves me a little less cranky in the morning. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I BEGAN MY CAREER at a small startup biotech company, only to realize the place had too much office politics, plus not enough credit was given for new discoveries. That was at odds with what I wanted, which was to be a research scientist focused on the basic principles underlying diseases. Fortunately, I was offered a tenure-track academic position at a large medical school in Houston. I never looked back. Indeed, I consider myself one of the fortunate few who woke early each and every day to pursue their life’s passion. Amid this career switch, a quirk of fate led to a fortuitous financial commitment. The university was part of the Texas educational system. Texas had—and still has—some unique and arcane rules. For instance, it remains against the law to carry wire cutters, thanks to a mid-19th century law aimed at reducing cattle rustling. Some of these unique laws also extend to retirement savings within a state-funded organization. When I sat down with human resources during my first week at the new job, I was told I had to commit to a retirement pathway and I needed to make that decision before I got my first paycheck. The pathway chosen was irrevocable. I’d never previously given retirement a second thought. While the starting salaries for faculty were low, the school’s benefits were substantial. The default retirement choice was automatic enrollment in a program where 6.65% of my base salary was automatically shunted to TIAA-CREF, a leading manager of teacher retirement funds. Alternatively, I could opt out and instead fund a self-directed 403(b) that included investments from numerous different financial firms. TIAA-CREF embraced a magic formula that was dependent on years of service, but where you could potentially receive some 80% of your final salary. Retirement benefits also included health care at the regular employee subsidized rate. Basically, the TIAA-CREF option I was offered was an annuity with golden bells and whistles. Nearly 90% of incoming faculty took the TIAA-CREF option. The school made it quick and easy to enroll. Meanwhile, the self-directed plan was presented as the poor stepchild. The plan also had the 6.65% required pretax investment. The school would kick in an additional 8.5% to combat market uncertainty. This represented an immediate investment gain equal to approximately 125%. The self-directed plan also included the same benefits package for post-retirement health care. I found the mandatory investment and employer contribution appealing. The catch with the self-directed plan was that it held enormous market risk. But, hey, it was my dream job. What’s a little risk when you enjoy what you do? I did a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation. Throw the savings into a portfolio with a 90% stock-10% bond asset allocation. Assume a 25-year career with 3% average annual salary growth. Factor in a conservative 7% annual Dow Jones Industrial Average increase. Take the final savings and apply a 4% withdrawal rate upon retirement. I truly thought my brain would explode. My quick estimate produced only 65% of salary at retirement, well below the 80% offered by the TIAA-CREF option, plus there were tons of risks to consider. Increases in salary weren’t guaranteed, percent from my employer could change at the whim of politicians, and market performance is never certain. And who knows if I could even survive in the academic world for 25 years? I now understood why most people chose the TIAA-CREF option. But when it came time to sign on the dotted line, I still chose the self-directed plan. It was the second-best financial decision I’ve ever made. In case you’re wondering, my best financial decision was to marry—and stay married to—someone with money values compatible with mine. For me, the deciding factor was that the TIAA-CREF option essentially represented an annuity, and an annuity meant that there was no pot of gold to pass to my heirs. On top of that, the annuity was limited if I didn’t meet the school’s magic formula for years of service. The 403(b), on the other hand, was something that was tangible as a legacy. While the pot might not be as full of gold at the end of the rainbow, it would still have my name engraved on the container. At the time, I didn’t know enough to pick sectors or specific asset classes, so I simply invested in a large-cap value stock fund that nearly mimicked the broad market. I kept investing in this manner through thick and thin. Indeed, I vividly remember the 2008-09 meltdown, when friends bailed out of stocks, and into bonds and cash. I had read that someone with a long time horizon should just sit tight. I convinced myself that my contributions were purchasing shares at fire-sale prices. Admittedly, it took way more convincing on some days than others. You know what they say: Time in the market beats timing the market. When my salary increased, my savings also automatically increased. It wasn’t sexy, and at times it wasn’t pretty. I lost lots of sleep some years, although in hindsight it also allowed me to define my risk tolerance. Yes, I did alter fund allocations along the way, mostly because the university would periodically change the lineup of investment options. At every change, I tried to lower fund expense ratios, although unfortunately management fees never dropped below 1%. I just retired at age 62, which is relatively young for an academic. My friends ask me how I could possibly retire early, especially after a career in academia. I could say that I got lucky with a generally robust stock market. But instead, I tell them that life’s outcomes are an accumulation of making the right choices at the right time. Luck and consistency pair well together. You just have to stick to the plan. Jeffrey K. Actor, PhD, was a professor at a major medical school in Houston for more than 25 years, serving as an academic researcher with interests in how immune responses function to fight pathogenic diseases. Jeff’s retirement goals are to write short science fiction stories, volunteer in the community and spend time in his garden. Check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]