At 48, I seem to have reached an age at which the daunting prospect of growing older has given way to the desire to be done with my “career” and back in control of my own life, a life which to this point has been largely a failure. Meanwhile, I have no idea how–emotionally, intellectually, spiritually–I’m going to get through the next 17 years to retirement. And, indeed, it’s looking like 65 might not be the magic age for much longer as the politicos eye pushing the goal posts back. More than once recently I’ve lingered in a fantasy in which some genie or spirit makes me an intriguing proposition: wake up tomorrow free from the need of job and with all the resources I would have accumulated over the next 17 years. The price? Direct to 65–those 17 years unlived. I think it’s a deal I’d accept in a heartbeat. Right now, I don’t see surrendering those 17 years as much of a sacrifice.
I watched my father die at the age of 57 with not a hell of a lot to show for it. I vowed, as a 19 year old, not to let that happen to me. Now, not much younger than he was at the time of his death, I’m gutted to find myself limping down that same lonely road, bereft of map or compass.
3 thoughts on “Thoughts: Weariness”
amen from a fellow traveler a few steps back on the same rutted track
HI Ed, I’m a little sorry to see that you feel this way. You are still writing? Still playing golf? Still married? No major (as in debilitating) health problems?
The only thing that we have to show in this life is our actions. Everything else will be taken from us, first a small slice at a time, occasionally in chunks, and finally all at once.
If we have a handful of friends and/or family, and we’re not cleaning toilets for a living and eating dog food while carrying a colostomy bag on our skateboard after losing our legs, I think we have a few things to be grateful for . . .
Now, don’t get the idea I’ve gone all Pollyanna on you, a little bitching is just fine, as a sport.
Thanks for the words of encouragement, Dave. I’ll buck up, if only because of the wonderfully Beckettian image of a legless man pulling his colostomy bag along with him on a skateboard. “I can’t go on, I’ll go on,” right?