Every now and then I browse through the classified ads. (I’m not looking for a job or a new house. I think it’s just an excuse to sit with another cup of coffee.) These expeditions beyond the borders of my own little life inevitably prove that there is no available job for which I’m qualified, and no real estate I can afford, at least not anywhere I’m willing to live.
Today I took it a step further and leafed through an ad supplement that was tucked in with the morning paper. A thorough perusal of those shiny pages reassured me that not only is there nothing I need, there’s nothing (no thing) that I want, at least not from that store.
A career in the arts rarely leads to fortune or, for that matter, more than moderate fame. If I worked in another field – you know, like if I had a real job - I might have more money. But I have enough money, so what would be the point? I am what I want to be when I grow up, with sufficient music and writing projects to keep me busy for at least another lifetime.
Looking past the obvious - that I have no marketable skills and not a ton of money - I take these periodic revelations as evidence that, despite repeated attempts to sabotage my own life, I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. (I know, that sounds kind of new-agey but it does seem to be the case.)
As for a house, I have one. There’s a roof over my head and a floor under my feet. It’s no mansion but it’s mine. And I am living exactly where I’m supposed to be living. If I ever moved, I’d have to clean.
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