Someday when I retire, I’d like it to be on my terms. I’d like not to be laid off or given the “choice” of being reassigned to the e-mailroom at half the salary, or shown the proverbial door in any number of ways companies dispose of older workers while trampling on their dignity.

So I get Brett Favre just like I understood Michael Jordan, even while I was rolling my eyes.

I understand how someone who has attained a level of success well beyond their peers has a hard time walking away from what they love to do and just as significantly, walk out of the spotlight. And I understand how when they do decide to go, they want to do it their way.

Both Favre, a future Hall of Fame quarterback, and Jordan, an NBA Hall of Fame inductee, retired and came back, talked about coming back and didn’t. Both played beyond their prime. And both annoyed the cynics among us with their indecision and capriciousness.

By the time Favre finally convinced all of us he is really, truly not returning to football as he announced this week, even his fans were yelling, “So, leave already.” It was the same way Jordan fans debated whether his final years with Washington somehow tarnished his legacy.

On talk shows, some smart people and some not, speculated that it wasn’t football that Favre craved at all, but the attention all of his waffling was creating.

This is Brett Favre, one of the most acclaimed and beloved players in history. No one but Bears fans hated Favre and they would have knocked off any one of their many stumblebum quarterbacks in a heartbeat at the chance of putting Favre in a Chicago jersey.

Both Favre, who is almost 40, and Jordan, who retired at 40, were sore and arguably broken down when they retired, though Favre could probably still rank in the upper echelon of quarterbacks if he played this season. Jordan averaged 20 points on 45 percent shooting in his last season, scored 40 or more points on three occasions, and despite the fact that his Washington Wizards team was dreadful, they still sold out every home game in his last season.

But was the end the way they envisioned?

Jordan scored 15 points in his last game. Favre, who threw six touchdown passes against Arizona in the fourth week of last season, was intercepted eight times and threw for two touchdowns in his last five games.

They walked away somewhat awkwardly, hesitatingly, without the full acclaim Favre would have had if he had chosen 2007 as his last season, and Jordan, 1998.

That was the Bulls’ sixth NBA title and the moment that is forever frozen in our minds as we picture Jordan’s last moment of glory; the perfect ending as he stole the ball from Utah’s Karl Malone, dribbled upcourt and sank the game-winning three-pointer from the top of the key, his follow-through held just long enough for the dramatic flourish it deserved.

That would have been the perfect time for Jordan to hang it up, we said.

The ’07 season was the one in which Favre broke Dan Marino’s all-time NFL record for touchdown passes, led Green Bay to a 13-3 regular-season record, the division title and a berth in the NFC Championship game, which they lost in overtime.  But that was also the game in which Favre extended his NFL record for consecutive playoff games with a touchdown pass to 18, that last one a 90-yard pass to Donald Driver that was the longest in Packers’ playoff history.

That would have been a perfect time for Favre to leave, we said.

But it wasn’t right, at least for them. And they were willing to risk perfect endings for walking away when their hearts finally told them they had no other choice. As hard as it must have been, there was no question anymore, no doubts. On their own terms.

The way we’d all wish for ourselves.

It has been brought to my attention that I am a moron.

For the most part, I welcome feedback to things that I write, though I prefer it to be of the gushing, fawning variety and anything critical to come from the people I love, such as the above.

I developed this thin skin when I started writing columns in Cocoa, Fla., in the early 1980s.  I was enjoying myself, learning my craft as I made predictions on the local high school games each week, occasionally being sarcastic and OK, maybe caustic and perhaps even occasionally insulting, depending on your point of view.

I thought I was hysterical.

Shockingly, others did not. And so they would write to me, and high school football being the passionate diversion that it was in Central Florida, the letters were, um, very passionate.

In the interest of good taste and federal regulations involving Internet decency, I cannot share the contents of most of them. One that stands out in my mind however, told me in graphic terms that I should stop writing about football until I could “pee standing up.”

This was a recurring theme in those days, the fact that I was a woman apparently much more offensive than whatever it was I wrote. I did not take this particularly well. But I felt better after one early-morning get-together in which some of my male friends, in a show of support that nearly brought me to tears, set the letter on fire and then put it out in a manner in which the writer pointed out I could not.

Of course, we were young and foolish and there may have been some alcohol involved. I have matured since then and now I simply pout when I receive critical mail.

My husband has urged me in the past not to respond when I receive one of those e-mails that goes beyond the bounds of constructive criticism and human civility. But since you cannot set e-mails on fire with any real satisfaction, I often write back. The writer then responds, then I respond and then we’re in the kind of match that the writer in Cocoa eluded to.

I have largely avoided this in writing my blog mostly because, as I have pointed out in the past, I suspect most of my readers are related to me.

And I can take it when my relatives tell me I’m a moron.

My brother, for example, just told me this today, when he informed me that I could have avoided the cross-country trip to the Sonic drive-in in Algonquin (technically only about 45 minutes away – an hour and a half or more factoring in Founders Day traffic) if I had known there was another Sonic about 15 minutes away from our house.

I think he was making this up to bolster his point that there is a better drive-in, Superdawg, indeed closer to home. When I responded that I had never been to Superdawg, the shock – even via e-mail – was palpable and he let me know that his respect level for me had dropped to embarrassing levels.

Superdawg is a Chicago institution. Of this, I am aware. I am also aware that I have passed by there about 200,000 times as a child on my way from our house to O’Hare Airport. Since I was not driving, I had no real control over the situation, but I do remember being equally captivated and terrified by the GIANT boyfriend and girlfriend hot dogs on its roof.

You can see the giant hot dogs from Indiana on a clear day, so I’m still not sure why my father, a hot dog lover from way back, was never compelled to stop at Superdawg. I can only conclude that he was loyal to his own hot dog stands closer to home and that we could not possibly risk a stop to eat on the way to the airport and possibly miss a pick-up or drop-off (despite the fact that he would have allowed at least three hours to make the 20-minute drive).

If we were the ones getting on a plane, we would have been all dressed up because that’s what you did in those days, and couldn’t possibly risk spilling on ourselves.

All of this came up, in part, because Superdawg is building a new restaurant extremely close to where we live. It is scheduled to open in October and our friend Mike – also a foodie but not that snobby kind – told us it coincides nicely with his wife’s birthday, so we can all celebrate there (his wife’s expectations are pretty low, he explained).

While he was still associating with me, my brother told me about the bike trail that should lead us right to the front door, which will make me happy. And it’s a drive-in, so our daughter Amanda should love it.

We’ll try not to think about what our niece Erica pointed out after reading my last blog about our excursion to find a drive-in.

“Isn’t that just like a drive-thru?” she asked innocently. “You order your food through a speaker and then you eat in the car?”

She’s in college.

Lately, parenthood has become a race. With one child going to high school in the fall and the other starting junior high, it’s like we’re trying to pack in all the fun before it’s too late and both kids are too embarrassed to associate with us any longer.

At least this is what we hear from all the cool, professional parents who have already experienced this. They tell us that eventually, like when they’re 30 or so, your kids come back around to liking you again. But soon, and thankfully my husband and I are not so feeble as to have forgotten going through this ourselves, they will be mortified to do any of the following:

Go to the movies with us within 30 miles of home.

Go bike riding with us within 60 miles of home.

Be seen in public with us.  Anywhere.

I suspect the bike riding is even in jeopardy based on the reaction we got from our sweet, little Alec when we recently asked if he and his sister wanted to go on a walk with us. The walk takes us on a four-mile course around our neighborhood and our sweet, little Alec informed us that parading together as a family in this manner would be of the same embarrassment level as wearing headgear to school (and I sincerely apologize if any of you or your children had to do this).

Other than that episode, however, this summer has been filled with more family fun than any family has the right to have. Take this weekend, for example.

We let Amanda decide what to do Saturday, because we can never agree on anything and, well, we were obviously delirious.

She chose a Sonic Drive-In in Algonquin, Ill., approximately 800 miles from our home, and we agreed with the stipulation that we would also go bike-riding on a trail near there (my idea) and hit golf balls somewhere afterward (Alec’s idea). My husband Rick did not get to choose. It just works better that way.

So, why, you ask, would a 14-year-old girl want to go to a drive-in? We’re still asking ourselves this question. Apparently, she had never seen a drive-in until eating at a Sonic while visiting her cousins in Arizona recently, and thought it was great. She also watches the Food Network a little too often.

Nevertheless, off we went, happy with our family fun time together until we were an hour into the trip, finally arrived in Algonquin and ran into its Founders Day celebration and Algonquin’s one traffic jam of the year.

It was about this time that it occurred to everyone in the car but Amanda that we had driven 800 miles to eat a hamburger in a suburb much like ours. Only in our suburb, we eat them at a table.

“You can’t be mad at me,” she informed us in a preemptive move from the backseat as the parade kicked into high gear about 72 cars in front of us.

“Sure we can,” Alec informed her matter-of-factly.

Finally, we arrived and it really was fun placing our order into the speaker, having our food roller-skated to our car and watching Rick spill each condiment in his lap.

As a side note, I should mention that my husband reacts to the smallest stain on his clothes the same way a normal person might react to having an entire chocolate milkshake dumped down his pants. Translated, he does not like it.

Not that this detracted from family fun time one bit. It was actually one of the highlights of the trip.

Watching Alec do the same thing and react the same way in the backseat was almost as fun.

While we digested, we drove around and angrily noted all the good stores and restaurants that Algonquin has which our suburb does not, not counting Sonic. After killing about seven minutes doing that, we drove to the bike trail and unloaded.

This was Alec’s favorite part of the day because in a discovery only a boy could enjoy, he noted that the outhouse had a bottomless toilet much like the movie, “Slumdog Millionaire.” My husband got a big kick out of this too. Amanda and I did not.

As far as I was concerned, the bike ride was great. I’m not sure if the rest of the family agreed and frankly, I don’t care. I have been dreaming of these family bike rides since before both children were born and I’d see families riding around with kids in little bike seats and those pull-able tent things and couldn’t wait to have kids so I could do that – so much so, Rick often reminds me, that when Amanda was still a baby (I remember her being about one, but Rick recalls her being closer to three weeks) I tried to tie her into a bike seat.

(For those of you considering having children, they have to be able to hold up their heads on their own to best appreciate a family bike ride.)

Anyway, I enjoyed the ride because both children could ride along supporting themselves under their own weight. Alec enjoyed the ride because we passed a small airport and he could watch the takeoffs and landings. Rick liked it because when the trail left us out into traffic, he noticed that we passed a restaurant where we once ate after one of those soccer games 800 miles away.  

And we think Amanda liked it because she remembered insect repellent unlike the last family fun day when she swelled up and spent the next three days groggy from Benedryl.

We never did hit golf balls, but we’re trying to train Alec for when he gets married and has no choice in what to do.

Thankfully, we all share a similar, warped sense of humor that allowed us to laugh for most of the day. And when we got home, Rick and Alec went to hit golf balls together and Amanda and I went to see a movie they both would have hated.

Family fun day was officially over.

Can’t wait until next weekend.

I may not have remembered where I was 40 years ago when man first lanced on the moon. And I can pretty much guarantee that by next week, I will have forgotten all the circumstances surrounding Michael Jackson’s death, regardless of the fact that I spent roughly 150 hours watching CNN’s coverage of it.

But I don’t think I will ever forget where I was when White Sox pitcher Mark Buehrle threw his perfect game.

At first, of course, I was annoyed that I wasn’t there because I briefly considered covering the game today for ESPNChicago.com. I was scheduled to make a book talk tonight at a library in Chicago’s South suburbs, not all that far from U.S. Cellular Field, and I thought maybe I could make both.

But then today’s Chicago Sun-Times came out with a long confession from former Sox pitcher Jim Parque, who admitted taking performance-enhancing drugs, and I decided I could write from home and still make the speech.

So there I was, minding my own business and writing about Parque, when I dropped my friend and Tribune columnist Rick Morrissey one of my typical glib little e-mails. Rick was at the Sox game and dropped me a glib reply, mentioning that his column and thus, his afternoon, would soon be screwed up by the fact that Buehrle was in the seventh inning of a perfect game.

I understood completely. In the business, this is known as rooting for yourself. Rick had already filed a column on Jim Parque.  Maybe he’d spruce it up a little.  But he would not have to write an entirely new column as he would now have to do if Buehrle threw a perfect game.

I told him that now that he had officially jinxed Buehrle, his worries were over (in the business, this is known as the double-jinx as I was thus negating the first jinx by telling him his worries were over). I fully expect Rick to slug me in the arm next time he sees me.

Anyway, I thanked Rick for alerting me and immediately turned on the game. Glancing nervously at the clock, I tried to will the game to slow down so that my son Alec would get home from camp in time to catch at least some of it.

Having forced my children to become White Sox fans as soon as they were old enough to understand, Alec is now in love with the team and with Buehrle, in particular. I briefly debated whether it would be in good taste to call my friend who was driving carpool from camp and ask her to drive faster. But she and her family are Cubs fans and I figured she would be indifferent to my plea.

Thankfully, Alec made it as the ninth inning was starting and he was as excited as I was.

(Note: I’ve noticed since not working for the Tribune that I have regained my ability to occasionally scream at the TV and the games therein – both in anguish and glee. I’m not sure what to make of this but it worked for me today.)

The first batter of the inning hit a long line drive to centerfield and, exhibiting all of my best motherly qualities, I cursed loudly. But then Sox centerfielder Dewayne Wise made a leaping, perfect-game-saving, home run-robbing catch with a bobble and re-catch in between, and Alec and I shrieked, hugged (my idea) and high-fived (his).

The second batter struck out as we tried to pull ourselves together. And then came the final out – on a groundball to the shortstop — and Alec and I experienced a mother-son moment that I will never forget.

This was a hug that exhibited the deep and genuine love that can only truly be experienced when your quirky shortstop has kept his throw to first in the field of play.

Alec ran off to call friends and I ran off to bother Mark Buehrle’s family for another story before heading off to the library.

I am now writing this in the car – no worries, I’m not driving – on the way home. Two stories and a blog later, I am left fulfilled, stimulated and grateful.

I had a moment I know I will always remember. And a hug I will never forget.

Until about an hour ago, I thought the meanest thing my husband and I had ever done to our son Alec was not buying him a dog.

But according to an article in Social Science Quarterly – What? You don’t read that? – we have also given him a terrible burden to bear.

A friend sent me a link to a segment from the Today Show (always on the lookout for new ways to depress us in the morning), which cites the article, saying that giving your newborn boy an “oddball, girly or strange first name may just land them in jail.”

First on the list of top 10 “Bad Boy” baby names?

Alec, of course.

My husband points out that the list is in alphabetical order, like that helps. The other names are Ernest, Garland, Ivan, Kareem, Luke, Malcolm, Preston, Tyrell and Walter.

Now I don’t know what jails the good people from Social Science Quarterly are frequenting, but I have yet to see a prison movie where any of the convicts are named Preston, Walter or Garland. That said, put me on a playground with an Ernest when I was a kid and yes, I would probably have tripped him for no good reason.

And Kareem? Are there really a lot of those running around, other than Abdul-Jabbar?

While the article says  these “unpopular” names are unlikely to be the direct cause of crime – Gee, ya think? — Shippensburg University Professor David Kalist and his associate Daniel Lee (sure, David and Daniel) write that the social pressures of being given a god-awful name “increase the tendency toward juvenile delinquency.”

The research was based on a study of approximately 15,000 names given to baby boys between 1987 and 1991. Apparently during the time span, there were kids on playgrounds all over America sending little Alec’s down the road to no-good by calling them “Smart Alec.”

Thankfully, our Alec was born in 1998, so he might be OK (unless, of course, anyone gets wind of the fact that I like to call him “Alley Cat” sometimes, and then he’s doomed).

When I was little, girly boy names like Lesley or Adrian or Ira were not good. But oddball? Are they kidding? Have they read People Magazine?

Apparently, there are no bullies in Hollywood or all the celebrity kids there have their own bodyguards. Is anyone tracking Gulliver (Gary Oldman’s son), Hopper (son of Sean Penn and Robin Wright), Kyd (David Duchovny’s and Tea Leoni’s), Ocean (Forest Whitaker’s) or the ever-popular Pilot Inspektor (actor Jason Lee) to see if they turn to a life of crime?

I’m more than a little offended. Names that will go to jail? How about much lower than that? How about Osama, Attila, Idi, Bernie?

There are no rules now. Emerson, Grayson, Carson. Mackenzie, MacKinley. Caden, Teagan, Boden. Carson and Cannon.  Asher and Finley. Boys, girls or puppies, it’s impossible to tell.

My son Alec just walked in and wanted to see what I was writing about, so he read the article and was insulted. He cited two Alec’s he knows personally, including himself, and said both were good kids.

But he claims he is not angry at us for saddling him with such a liability and really, why would he be? We could’ve named him Garland.