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My Mini-Me and How I Became Rich
Each age in my life has had a few surprises. When I reached middle age, for instance, a mini-me suddenly appeared in my brain. The little guy was a stalker who watched me closely, especially when I was doing adult things.
I would be attending a cocktail party for members of the University’s English Department, for instance, the women in evening dresses, the men in coats and ties — all very grown-up, you know. I’d be standing there, a cocktail in my hand listening to an intellectual blowhard go on about postmodern something-or-other, when I would sense the presence of 13-year-old Kent in my head. “Damn,” I would think, “What are you doing here? I thought I had left you behind a long time ago.”
But there he was, my adolescent juvie self from the old days in Compton, CA, mocking my pretentiousness, dissing my airs: “What’s that in your hand, some kind of fancy-schmancy drink? Bud Light no longer good enough for you? You think you’re so hot. You’re not, Mr. Professor. You can’t keep up. Besides, you look like a walking and talking cliche, with your eggshell-blue shirt, striped tie, tweedy jacket, and leather elbow patches.” (He got me there. I was proud of my tweedy jacket with leather elbow patches.)
That bratty second self was awakening my insecurities, turning me into a kid among adults. I was suddenly not really adult enough or good enough to stand around shooting the breeze with hyper-educated academics. I remember one guy who told a joke at one of these get-togethers that started with “So Socrates and Chagall walk into a bar….” I joined in the laughter at the punchline, but I didn’t get it.
I’m reminded of a Ray Bradbury short story in which a guy becomes suddenly aware of his skeleton. “My god,” he thinks, “I’m walking around with a skeleton inside me.” And I would think, “My god, there’s a smart-ass kid stalking me from within.”
But old age has produced the biggest surprise when I discovered, quite unexpectedly, that I was rich. I had never been rich before. When I was younger, I wanted a Porsche 911, the best-looking car ever made. I also wanted a BMW opposed-twin motorcycle. But I could afford neither. (I drove an old Dodge van and rode a Honda scooter.)
I could see myself in the driver’s seat of that Porsche, cradled in soft leather, flicking that short-throw gear shift into third, feeling the wheels bite into the asphalt and push me back into the seat. That unrealized Porsche left a small ache in my heart.
Now in my old age, I drive a 16-year-old Prius (with 206,000 miles on it) and it suits me to a T. I can afford a Porsche 911 now, but I don’t want one. That’s being rich, isn’t it? To buy whatever you want.
I think some of my old lectures on the Greek stoic philosopher, Epictetus, must have finally made sense in my old age and become a part of my mindset. “Wealth consists not in having great possessions,” Epictetus wrote, “but in having few wants.” I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that Epictetus’s message resembles the messages of two other great philosophers, the Buddha and Jesus. When three great teachers agree, one ought to take heed.
I never was much of a clotheshorse, but now with Epictetus as my guide, I buy my clothing at Goodwill and at a used-clothing place called Value Village. And I dress better than I ever have in my life. In middle age, I could never in good conscience buy an expensive cashmere sweater for myself, but now at Value Village I sometimes come across an almost brand new cashmere sweater for ten or fifteen bucks. That’s all I wear now: cashmere sweaters. I’m rich. Macy’s and Nordstrom, go suck eggs.
Our house is full of furniture. I have a fondness for the stuff that’s been around for a long while because it’s been around for a long while, but I’m particularly fond of the furniture I made myself. I‘ll stop every now and then and look at a maple display cabinet I made 40 years ago and remember how hard I worked to join the top and sides with hand-cut dovetails. My furniture is now more meaningful than it’s ever been and it leaves me satisfied, not wanting more or anything different.
I now buy anything I want. Isn’t that a good definition of being rich?
There’s no telling, of course, how all of this will turn out. All the good luck in my life could turn on me when it’s endgame time. But if my luck holds, here’s what’s going to happen: One fine day, with Marie and Bob the dog looking on with concern, the sun shining brightly outside, I will leave this plane of existence and land softly on the other side, wherever that is.
Sure, that’s the ticket. I’ll finally be sitting in the catbird seat. I deserve that. My wife Marie and Bob the dog can vouch for me. I dry the dishes and take out the trash without fail, and I tell Bob that he’s a good boy at least five times a day, and I take him for walks in the dark, rainy Oregon evenings.
Published in General
Love pets, generally – we have 2 dogs and 2 cats. No preference for either.
Your line reminded me of a dog I once had, when I had 2 jobs (a full-time gig and a part-time gig) and was in school part-time for my MBA, so I had very little free time for about 2 years. I had promised our dog then, Galen, to take him on more walks when things settled down.
But I couldn’t, because the poor guy got cancer, and we had to put him down. So I now try to slow down and take the time to walk the doggies more often, just because. 20 minutes? I’ve got 20 minutes. I can do that.
In the movie Notting Hill, Anna Scott (Julia Roberts) gives William Thacker (Hugh Grant) her Chagall painting as a gift. Just some FYI that has no bearing on the post or your comment!
I haven’t had a dog in a long time. Most of them don’t live past 10 years, and it just got to hard for me to part with them. My last dog was a Rottweiler, Stacy, died at about 9 years. I lost 3 beloved pets in about a 6 years period of time, so can’t face it again. Lately have been thinking about getting a young, well trained service dog, but haven’t the funds for it. There are numerous organizations that will give a service dog for free, except to a person with balance problems and the blind. Those 2 exceptions would cost about $9,000 to $11,000 for fully trained services. Did a little research, and the cost covers a warranty should the person get injured if the dog made a mistake.
You guys have given me a terrifying vision of the future. At precisely what age did you decide you would rather drive a Toyota hybrid than a Porsche 911? Maybe I’m worrying over nothing. My wife’s father still loves his 1995 Mustang GT with a stick shift, and he is 82.
Like most things these days, there’s some intersectionality in play. It’s possible to continue to drive a stick shift (which I do) into one’s mid-60s and beyond. I like a stick shift, and I have no intention of getting rid of mine.
However, “mine” is a 2009 Nissan Cube, probably the least sexy car ever to come off the assembly line. I love the gas mileage, the size of it (it’s one of the smallest cars, once you get past the “Smart” sized cars, and it fits into parking spaces that nothing else will), the fact that I can get a goat, or a couple of hay bales into the back of it, and that 8-foot lumber will (barely) fit inside.
So, if the “stick” is at the top of your intersectionality sweepstakes, you can age gracefully and continue to drive on. If the sexy car is the most important thing, then I can’t help thinking that, at some point, you might look as if you’re trying too hard.
PS-there’s something to the “millennial anti-theft device” nature of the stick. At a Ricochet meetup a few years ago in Pittsburgh, I valet-parked the thing (don’t usually do that, but it was a restaurant I’d never been to before, and I didn’t really want to be looking for my car by myself in the dark). I could see the car, on the other side of Market Square, when the young man went to retrieve it. He got in. I waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, another (older) fellow got a call on the walkie-talkie, and jogged over to help him. You guessed it. Helpless in the face of the stick shift. I weep for this generation.
What a gorgeous post!
My kids refer to all sports cars as “old man cars,” and not ironically. The vast majority of people who drive them are, by comparison to my kids, old men.
I am impressed that you have reached this equilibrium. I might get there someday, but I doubt it.
I love a stick, but there are lots of obsolete technologies out there that we do not romanticize.
Still, in my neighborhood, stick shifts are the ultimate anti-theft device.
One bullet hole isn’t going to cost that much to fix.
Right, but a good manual transmission is worth romanticizing. There are pleasures that have been around since Adam and they are still enjoyable.
From long experience in traffic stops, I came to associate Camaros with aggressive, immature jerks. I expounded on this theory to a dispatcher who was doing a ride-along with me. At the end of the shift, I dropped him off at the station where he got into his Camaro and left without a word.
I had a similar belief about BMW drivers, since every single one I pulled over turned out to be a raging donkey-pit. I let one of my recruits onto this bit of wisdom. At the end of the shift, she, of course, turned out to have a BMW waiting for her in the parking lot.
At that point, I was batting 0 for 2. I retired from associating cars with personalities.
That’s too funny! Don’t you dare insult Honda Civic Minivan drivers. I just might be one!
You weren’t wrong; it’s just that you didn’t know who you were speaking with.