My dad used to tell me the story of this guy that was in his fifties and had a wife and family to support when he was a young guy - working for Otis Elevator, I think.He said the company had the guy by the balls because they knew his financial situation and when they said jump he said "how high?" and my dad was disturbed to see a guy of that age being run through the ringer like that.
I remember when I first got my drivers licence I also got an Esso points card from the gas station at King George and 24th Avenue and the man that pumped my gas and suggested the card to me had to be in his fifties at least. Possibly his sixties. And when it came to the personal information he leaned in to my 1980 Toyota Corolla and told me not to bother filling it out because HQ didn't need to know that stuff.
I drove away smiling at his attitude but mortified that a guy my dad's age was working as a gas jockey. I can't fucking stand it. I can't handle people my parents' age doing joe jobs because they fell short with their retirement savings or whatever.
The hoops we jump through. You better either be rich or good looking otherwise someone is going to make you do something you don't want to do.
This is what happened to me today and unfortunately I'm not yet independently wealthy, nor am I a head turner.
Michael and I refer to it as "building pink stucco houses". Michael has a bullshit job and I think the reason he stopped going to his work's Christmas parties is because he would be obligated to take me and I would be obligated to drink too much and someone might inadvertently walk into my fist with their mouth.
Michael has his Masters of Architecture (he no longer works in that field) and we often talk about what we would do for the almighty buck when times are lean. It can't always be Falling Water or that super modern house on St. Georges and 5th. Sometimes you have to build that giant, pink stucco house that takes up most of the lot and it makes you throw up in your mouth a little as you draw it up.
This is me, throwing up in my mouth a little.
Maybe I should get my nose and tits done.
6 comments:
I know just how you feel, I see some of the teachers at work who are either just short of, at or just past retirement age for the rest of the world, but in order to retire from a school in the state of Texas your age and years of service have to come to some magic number. (I don't pay any attention to that number at the moment b/c I'm not near it, just like my co-worker.) We raised kids until they were old enough to come home alone and we then went back to work. The only difference in me and the co-workers is I have a husband to rely on and they don't. It makes me sad to see some of them having to work and they can't stop for lack of planning ahead. It really makes me wish I'd prepared better for the future and it makes me hope my kids do.
Ah money. The sanctity of security. So here we all are. In terror of the future. If we all pledged to form a commune at 65 and share all equally? What do you think would happen to the quality of our lives?
Yeah, the future can be a scary prospect. I just don't like it when employers attach stipulations to my paycheque that have nothing to do with my job duties...
You're all welcome to my commune. Except I am the leader and you have to give me all your money and I will spend it in the best interests of the members. I'll start mixing up the Kool Aid now.
I suppose I should point out that Falling Water leaks like a sieve and would have fallen down were it not for the owners bottomless pockets covering the extensive remedial works?
Can't we just have Jell-o shots instead of Kool-aid?
Jello shots for all.
Let us all raise a glass to "Rising Mildew".
One day to go...
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