After working 40 years under weird fluorescent lights in the journalism trade, with two weeks off for good behavior, I am “retiring.”

Not rich. Wife Wonder and my attempts to adopt a rich kid failed.

Not poor. My double-car garage is full of pocket watches stuck on 11 a.m., records from bands now performing at county fairs and tools ideal for fixing a 1966 Ford Fairlane.

Not poor because I have a brilliant wife who makes fabric art, bakes and keeps me humble by winning our home version of “Jeopardy,” the TV quiz show, for 365 days running.

I’ve been saving for retirement for four decades. Now, I’m told, I need to save for a nursing home.

The amount people quote me should buy a nursing home, with swimming pool, racquetball courts, basketball gym, sauna, jacuzzi, weight room and deli that serves the finest midnight snacks.

No, they say. The quote is for a room, shared.

Since I am a 65-year-old optimist, I’m thinking I won’t need a nursing home “half room” for 25 years. By then, based on current inflation, instead of costing $4,000 a month, Late-Stage Capitalism Nursing Home will cost $4,000 a day.

I will wonder why I failed to choose the bargain basement $99 a night Sunny Horizons, the “Motel 6 of nursing homes,” which will “leave the light on for you” — as long as you have a pulse.

Sunny Horizon’s specialty is lunches featuring whirled peas, since world peace by then will seem as likely as finding a McDonald’s with a working ice cream machine.

Perhaps, to earn my supper, I could sing a raspy tenor version of the Blue Oyster Cult song, “DON’T FEAR THE REAPER!”

Since I have no children to call or visit, and since my hearing has gone to hell, I will spend much of my nursing home time listening to Baby Boomer music turned up to jet-takeoff volume.

My nursing home playlist includes “Stairway to Heaven,” by Led Zepplin. I just hope none of the steps are missing.

Or I will listen to “Dream On” and “Sweet Emotion,” by Aerosmith, the band responsible for my hearing loss.

Occasionally I will crank up “Freebird,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and our wheelchairs will spin around the commons area like combines at a destruction derby.

I will also play the marathon song by Queen, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” However, most of my nursing home co-conspirators won’t make it to the end since by that time our attention spans, thanks to TV news and Twitter, will be three seconds.

I will also crank up “Wanted Dead or Alive,” by Bon Jovi, as a tribute to wild seeds sown in the 1960s and 1970s.

If I’m on daily medication, “Comfortably Numb,” by Pink Floyd, might be the ticket.

I’ll finish my jukebox reminiscing with “Reeling in the Years,” by Steely Dan, since by then I’ll feel lucky for each new sunrise.

I’ll ratchet up the volume to 10, the loudest on the stereo, or whatever music-playing devices are called in Tomorrowland. My housemates, if they haven’t rolled off for midnight snacks, will fiddle with their hearing aids and crankily say, “Turn it up to 11.”

Reach the author at jeffp557@gmail.com.

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