I don’t have a job, I have a vocation. Having a job implies one day you will either resign or retire from that line of work. You may do something else or nothing at all beyond sitting on your porch and heckling the neighbor kids in your old age. A vocation is a lifetime commitment, a undeniable pull that keeps you busy until the Reaper has to pry you from it with his ice cold, bony fingers.
I write. I won’t stop. It’s safe to say I won’t stop working in general. I’m in my mid-forties, so I fret about money, the future, and death. When I was twenty I had no idea where I’d be at forty, and now I’m not sure if I should consider myself lucky to make it to sixty because I don’t know if I’ll have any money.
I may still be married then, I may not. I may still have the job I have now, I may not. Old lady sex videos may have a market in twenty years, but if not I’ll have to find another backup plan.
People on the Internet like to tell others what to do with their money. I’ve seen a writer recommend an expensive retreat as a must-attend, with responses varying from Privilege much, rich white man? to Let me pick some money growing on the bush in my backyard. There’s an article circulating about how women should have a F*ck Off Fund for emergency situations. Reading it reminded me a bit of that prologue in UP! where Carl and Ellie continuously toss pennies in a jar for their Paradise Falls fund, only for crap to happen every two weeks. I’m not saying a F*ck Off Fund is unattainable, it’s just saving money is damn hard. Even if you’re doing the right things by pitching into a IRA, crap happens.
I’d like to have a plan, especially since I’m not rich. I always keep “what if” scenarios tucked in a back drawer of my mind.
I can get my teaching certificate renewed.
I type well.
I’ll work anywhere if need be.
Heaven forbid I should end up on my own, but I do have an idea just in case. I’ve watched enough of The Golden Girls to hope if it’s necessary I can find three compatible roommates and share a house. I would be willing to gauge interest now as a backup plan. You don’t have to be a widow or divorcee like Dorothy or Rose or Blanche, or come from Minnesota or date half of Miami, or have colorful anecdotes of Sicily, 1925. If you have a job I don’t care if you’re gay or straight, cis or trans, atheist or believer. Race, gender, ability, politics…whoever you are, if you’re tidy and pay rent on time and are not a criminal I’ll split a cheesecake with you.
We’ll need a coupon for it, though. Or wait for a sale.