“This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.” – Fight Club
The 13th Rule of Fight Club: If your mom is going to drive you home after Fight Club, make sure she signs you out first.
With everything in the news right now, it’s probably a good time to talk about money and life. There are significant uncertainties right now, and here are a few examples in no particular order:
- Corona Virus – A big deal? It might be. I just saw that Corona® beer had changed their name to Bubonic Plague™.
- Nuclear Iran And Nuclear North Korea – The plus side of nuclear war is no more pop-up ads.
- Impending Market Meltdowns – Escalators were down, while Pencils lost a few points. Paper was stationary and Diapers remained unchanged, while Toilet Paper reached a new bottom.
- A Left Wing That Has Bad Intentions When It Gains Power – The upside is that when a Leftist walks into a bar after the Revolution, he’ll order shots all around.
- Jack’s Raging Bile Duct – Wait, hold up?
Okay, it’s not really a bile duct. And the guy’s name wasn’t Jack.
I was reading about a guy who just retired at about age 60. He had saved and invested his whole life, making sure that he would have enough money to last until he was 90. Since he had been a high-powered Wall Street guy, he did really well. He had saved millions, so he intended to live a pretty nice retirement with lots of travel around the world. Oh, he wanted to live in a pretty expensive town. And, even though money isn’t everything, it kept him in touch with his children.
Then?
Mario had to retire from plumbing because the Yelp® reviews all mentioned him raiding the fridge for mushrooms and stomping on any pet turtles he saw.
He was diagnosed with cancer – but a type that’s incurable. And it’s a fairly tough type: it’s got a 50% survival rate to make it for 5 years. Amazingly, he was writing about what people in their fifties might do in the current investment climate. He wasn’t writing about the fact that the remainder of his life was maybe reduced by 83% from his plans.
Me? If I were him, I’d be spending at least some of the money that I’d saved to last me for twenty-five years of life until 90 on a very, very nice bottle of scotch. And perhaps a cigar made from angel wings. For dinner? Nothing special. Maybe some surf and turf: yeti with Loch Ness monster filets grilled over lava pulled from the center of the Earth. I’d make sure that I used every second that I had left to me.
No clowns though. They taste funny.
But what if our lives were infinite, would that change anything?
I was driving down the street with The Boy and Pugsley several years ago. We were driving home from a camping trip, and were going through a small town on a sleepy Sunday morning. It was early enough that people hadn’t even gotten up for church yet. As we drove I saw a sign that said, “Jim McGill, Insurance and Real Estate” and decided to make a joke, because we’re a fun family.
I pulled out my best booming operatic voice, so deep and resonant it makes Brian Blessed sound like he hasn’t yet hit puberty:
Don’t hate him because he’s beardiful.
“Jim McGill is here to help you with all of your insurance and real estate needs, as he has for a thousand years here in Cedar Ridge.
“No one has more experience than McGill, who has studied the intricacies of umbrella insurance policies for decades of the countless years of his nigh-immortal life. McGill can also use his communion with the deep and ancient dark spirits of the Earth to find the very best property for you. Since the dawn of single-celled life on this puny planet, there is no insurance agent or realtor who will ever get you a better deal.”
The Boy piped in: “Brought to you by the power of the Necronomicon™.”
See, I told you we’re a fun family.
Oh, I thought you said immoral. My bad.
I was making a joke, but stumbled upon a truth. The joke was supposed to funny because here was an immortal being, selling insurance in a small town in the Midwest. But as I drove on, I realized a different truth: if an immortal can’t afford to spend his life doing trivial things, why do we?
Not that there’s a problem selling insurance, or a problem with selling real estate. I have a friend who dreams about selling real estate. She’s going to get her license. I think she’ll have a lot of fun with it – she likes working with people, and it’s something that’s important to her – finding the right person to sell the right house to will probably be fun and she probably won’t have to summon demons and other Satanic spirits to find a nice three bedroom on a cul-de-sac for a married couple with a baby on the way. Probably.
For me, personally, selling real estate would be one of the punishments that would be reserved for a deep level of Hell: lower than people who mow lawns at 8am on Saturday morning but not quite as low as Congressmen. But I think it will really make my friend happy.
He has a very special set of skills . . . .
And that’s a good reason to be a realtor – being happy by helping other people. It’s also a good reason to sell insurance. But never forget, doing a job is just that, doing a job.
We may not like everything we have to do at work, and we’re certainly not special snowflakes who deserve the job of our dreams just because we got a Master of Fine Arts in Paranormal Entity Identification and Eradication. We get paid to go to work because it’s not a hobby. Lots of times we’ll do things we’d only do if you were getting paid, like when I polished Grandma’s corns for a shiny new nickel.
It may be that the gentleman with cancer is writing for a reason – because that’s how he’s wired. I get it – I’m writing this sentence at 4am. But he has a choice.
There comes a time to realize that, if the basics are covered, you really do have a choice. Money only buys a certain amount of happiness. A new car isn’t necessary if you have one that works – no matter how old it is. You are trading your life for money, and even if you die with a lot of money, you’re still dead.
Make sure the trade is worth it, because you’re literally trading your life for it.
Meanwhile . . . somebody go pluck an angel’s wings.
It was a popular theme back in the gilded 80s (before themes morphed into modern day ‘memes’) that went, ‘He who dies with the most toys wins’. I am still trying to figure out just what it was that the happy 80s toy-collector expected to ‘win’ in death. Dead is dead, and no matter whether we are a Master of the Universe or a lowly street-sweeper, we all walk that last mile completely alone. What becomes of my accumulation of ‘toys’ as I shuffle off this mortal coil is frankly of no concern to me at all. Let my heirs duke it out over my collection of yellowed, vintage Nat Geo’s, and may the sharpest claws win. There is no classic Gran Torino hidden away in the garage to be fought over, but the kids don’t need to know that before I am gone.
I’ve known far, far too many wretched souls who wage-slaved into old age, knocking themselves stupid for decades only to waste away a year or two following retirement. One minute we are cutting the cake and bidding them godspeed on this new, exciting chapter in their evolution. Then too soon swapping wildly exaggerated anecdotes about a life well spent and now moving on to a better place, as they lay in a pine box, not moving much at all.
As a young man burdened with a young man’s impulsively self-imposed debt, I worked something known as ‘overtime’ so often that I recall only meeting my youngest child for the first time on his 8th birthday. Were it not for the undeniable family resemblance I would have strong suspicions regarding his lineage, so infrequently was I around early on. Is today’s zip code worth yesterday’s sacrifices?
Aw, hell, no. I’d gladly trade it all for a smaller house and better memories.
You retire when you realize your dwindling pile of days is more important than your dwindling pile of money. Retirement consists of the time between somebody escorting you to your former employer’s front door and somebody reading your eulogy. You get to be there for the former, but not the latter. Since you’ll never get to hear your own eulogy, here’s one instead that I did for my dad a year ago. Some thoughts to ponder.
https://drive.google.com/open?id=1DSrfBx5j8Cij9Eo0g1L-AQokmcOcnkd5
And as for cigars made of angel’s wings…
https://halfwheel.com/angels-anvil/62899/
Thanks for a wonderful post, John.
I got to give my Dad’s, or at least part of it. Being the Younger Brother has its advantages.
The Eulogy is nice.
The Angel’s Anvil . . . . have to check it out!
Yeah, I have a similar story – one stretch had me working so hard (80+ hour weeks) that the three year old (Pugsley) started hiding the shoes I wore to work. True.
I could retire, but I have some obligations that require me to continue somewhat longer. Will I be comfortable when I do? Since downsizing, costs went way down, and the travel my wife and I relish isn’t to far away lands. Watching our expenditures can lead to some pleasant memories at an affordable cost.
My grandfather, father, and three brothers never saw retirement. Only one brother reached retirement age, and cancer took him before he had a chance. My father and grandfather died of illnesses before they reached retirement age, and two brothers died young due to accidents.
So, I’m at that age where it’s all about deciding which road to take. It’s not a comfortable feeling, since the path isn’t certain. I’ll reach the end eventually, but the odds say the road might be shorter than it appears.
My Pop said to me one evening . . . “You know, son, no Wilder male has ever lived past the age of 63.” He died at 92. His brother died at 91.
You can never tell.
At first glance I thought your blog title referenced “Immoral Lawyers” and as I clicked I wondered if you thought there was another kind.
Or, Immaterial lawyers for the ghost-y type.
“Impending Market Meltdowns – Escalators were down, while Pencils lost a few points. Paper was stationary and Diapers remained unchanged, while Toilet Paper reached a new bottom.”
(From all over the field of play yellow flags come flying in and whistles blow bringing typing to a screeching halt)
(Referees run to an impromptu huddle near the space bar and rapidly converse while occasionally pointing at #69, John Wilder, ampersand receiver)
(Wilder does his best “What? I dindunuffin’ look”)
(Referees nod in agreement, break huddle and the senior referee turns towards the camera and activates his wireless microphone…)
Senior Referee: The were two penalties on the blog. Excessive punning while typing a bullet point. Number 69. 25 word penalty and loss of memory card for two blog posts. The second penalty…personal foul mocking the rules of fight club in a meme. Number 69. 15 word penalty and author must remove the inflated rainbow unicorn float ring from his waist for remainder of blog’s existence.
(Blogosphere erupts in cheers)
It could have been worse, I promise. Wait until you read Friday’s . . . . 🙂
My wife used this to suggest it was okay to leave the daily grind, “And then there is theost dangerous risk of all–the risk of spending your life not doing what you want on the bet that you can buy yourself the freedom to do it later.”. author unknown
Well said. And food for thought. Thanks.
And I don’t want to die with all of the money and none of the life well spent. Or worse, neither.
Bravo, John!
The line “trading your life for money” rings oh-so-true. That’s why I retired from corporate america at 56. It will be 5 years ago soon. There’s a real lesson in that statement. With bikinis, of course!
Oops, previously posted this comment in the wrong thread. Had something to do with excellent vodka. 🙂
No problem!!!!
And??? Like it???