Did I break an unwritten rule that op-eds must be in some order?

It’s true that the world functions better with rules. But I am actually tired of rules. Tired of being defined by background and profession, too. The enduring appeal of rebellious rock, pop, country or hip-hop songs suggests others feel similarly. Wouldn’t it be so fun to invent, say, a bad boy or bad girl origin story, like claiming to be born on the back seat of a Greyhound bus, as Dickey Betts of the Allman Brothers did in “Ramblin’ Man?” Then give yourself some gritty Delta blues name like Muddy Waters or Mudcat or Hound Dog, all growling libido. Or adopt a devil-may-care rapper handle such as Sexyy Red or Snoop Dogg? Or wear a sequined bodysuit in public, as Taylor Swift does? Clearly, rule-breakers rule.

I dream of bad-to-the-bone adjacent moves such as operating 100% on gut instinct, living purely in the here and now. Though untrue, dang if that wouldn’t be exciting. Season ticket on a one-way ride, as AC/DC’s Bon Scott sang. If politicians can make up stuff, why not me? It’s not like I’m claiming to be the greatest American president in history.

The reality of gut-based decisions is rude. Why trust your “gut,” especially when you think of the trillions of bacteria and thousands of different species living there? It’s kind of gross. As if thousands of species could come to a consensus, anyway. We can’t even get two political parties to agree on anything. Plus, can bacteria be trusted to provide a thoughtful answer?

Truth is, I’m no rebellious bad boy, more commonly labeled a mild-mannered “bookish professor.” A decade in university administration further eroded any fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants tendencies. Every thought had to be triple-distilled. Every email hand-sanded down to a smooth gloss. The goal was avoiding electronic versions of cage fights about, say, whether certain faculty needed scolding for practicing poor mixed-gender restroom toilet hygiene. (For the record, the culprit was a leaky valve that sprayed water over the seat when flushed. Our crack plumbing crew soon solved the problem, avoiding further crisis).

Dealing with a never-ending carnival of such crises, silly and serious, is enough to make anyone want to retreat into some alter ego. For some, that freeing of spirit may be found only in retirement. But why wait for that? Could mid-career reflection enable course correction sooner? Better to ask now how one’s work can be improved. Or whether too much is given to work, leaving only scraps for self, friends, and family. Sixty or 70-hour work weeks are American badges of honor, however baffling this is to people from other countries. It’s true our imbalanced economy means many must work multiple jobs to make ends meet, but others choose workaholism.

Bad boys and bad girls will always beckon, literally and figuratively, much as the bad-ass mask of overwork can be seductive, as one lurches from one challenge to the next without having to reflect much. Yet it’s important to see clearly the price paid for chaining oneself to the wheel. Biff, a character in Arthur Miller’s 1949 masterpiece “Death of a Salesman,” laments having to “suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation, when all you really desire is to be outdoors, with your shirt off.” Of course, not everyone literally wants to work outdoors with their shirt off, not even raunchy bad-girl rappers like Sexyy Red. Biff’s comment is part metaphor. The impulse to be free from workplace strictures and the quest for work-life balance may resonate with everyone, and often artists and musicians serve as alter egos for those who can’t wear one-legged snake catsuits to their workplace, like Ms. Swift.

When retirement comes along, melancholy and excitement may nestle next to one another. Some retirees will return to where they were raised, and put back on the hat they grew up with, so to speak. Others will strike out for new places and adopt new identities. Some will stay put in both senses of the term.

Reflecting on surrendering the majority of one’s life to work can lead to mixed emotions. There surely are resentments: seeing your life’s work mothballed or diluted by outside forces. Remembering professional humiliations. But there’s gratitude for employment and the relationships with others that are sustaining. And work keeps us out of trouble, mostly.

A little perspective, that good old liberal arts ability to self-reflect, is a powerful tool pre- and post-retirement. Make up stuff if you wish. Be good. Be bad. Be both. Add a blues-inspired nickname such as “Lightning” to your first or last name. Let it strike.

Hal Crimmel is a Brady Presidential Distinguished Professor of English who served for nine years as chair of the English department at Weber State University. This commentary is provided through a partnership with Weber State. The views expressed by the author do not necessarily represent the institutional values or positions of the university.