Now What? Part VII
Last week I tried to list the things I would do if I only had one year left to live. Even though I left out 365 days of dressing like a pirate (and, of course, the obligatory raping and pillaging that would follow), the exercise was very helpful.
At this point, an idealist would probably say that I should "Just Do It." Then that idealist would get sued for copyright infringement; be stripped of all his assets; lose his wife and family; attempt to ease the pain by injecting heroin; develop an addiction and be forced to turn tricks at a highway rest stop to support his habit; suffer from TMJ; meet a wizened, old "street" priest who teaches him about Jesus; catch AIDs, hepatitis B, chlamydia and, oddly, osteoporosis from the priest; be happily reunited with his dog Shithead and his long lost black family who invested his money-sent-home wisely; fall into a coma and get cryogenically frozen by a rogue doctor; be revived in the year 2156 by the ruling robot race which, having obliterated humans a century ago, promise to treat him as a king; have his diseases cured and his atrophied muscles quickly restored by some really cool, advanced medical procedure like in The Matrix; ironically, get custom-fitted for a new pair of Nike shoes and a sweatsuit; take his first step outside of the hospital/robot repair shop; close his eyes, look up into the sun and smile; get flattened by a speeding commuter bus.
Stupid idealist.
In order to avoid such a fate, I need to fully consider the financial, familial and Freudian costs of pursuing this list. (By Freudian, I mean my ego. Sorry, I just wanted to crowbar some alliteration into this post).
Financially speaking, the market for change is bullish. Other than a modest mortgage and gagillion dollars in student loans, Nerdy Squirrel Esq. and I are nearly debt-free. We do have expenses, but there's no need to get into a full-blown accounting of the cost of hookers, defense attorneys, poker debts and political hush money. That seems gratuitous...and my lawyer has advised me against it.
Regarding the need for new acquisitions (i.e., stuff), I don't have any significant material wants. Fortunately, I married a woman who does not require a constant influx of fresh buttons and bows (though she does appreciate a fresh butt on her beau). We generally don't give a rat's ass about cars, jewelry, clothes, or collectible ceramic rats' asses. As long as we have a few bucks to eat, buy booze, watch movies, and travel twice a year, we are happy (read: fat, drunk, entertained, and exhausted from an embarrassing amount of hotel sex).
Oh, yeah, we also need enough money left over to replace Nerdy Squirrel Esq.'s gloves every other week. I swear to God, the next pair I buy this woman are going to clip right onto her suit sleeves.
Ego, not surprisingly, is more of a problem.
We often hear about the tremendous social pressure young women feel to meet unattainable standards of beauty. It can lead to low self-esteem, anorexia, bulimia, and, in cases where the parents are total fucking retards, unnecessary plastic surgery.
What we don't hear as often is the social pressure on young men (not that it's a contest). From a young age, American boys are socialized to become wealthy and successful - and easily convinced that they are one and the same. Competitive behavior is highly encouraged and celebrated. We're taught to be number one. To win at any cost. For example, the mantra in my high school track locker room was, "Second place just means you're the first one to lose."
This one plagues me. Even though I'm absolutely certain that I don't need wealth - not to mention that I don't even consider it a suitable measure of success - I still get these prosperity pangs. A surge of blind ambition will course through me, creating an urgent need to go out and strike it rich. It isn't a conscious thought; it's just one of those places where my brain goes when I'm not paying attention. The best I can seem to do is rationalize it away when it hits.
OK, let's bottom line this fucker.
My ego requires regular maintenance. Knowing this, having a ready-made supply of juicy rationalizations to subdue it when it runs off should suffice. And while I do need to generate a humble amount of income, my family's needs are modest.
This, my weary friends, marks the end of all the collateral pyscho-babble. Time for the raping and pillaging to begin...baby needs a new pair of gloves.
TOMORROW: Now What? Part VIII