My current job ends in 13 days. Fortunately, I knew that it would come to a finish eventually and, even though my status as a “transitional employee” has been extended twice, there is a finality about January 28 that is unavoidable.
As I sat in my cubicle yesterday, closing out loans on my computer, I looked out the window and saw myself looking in. I know it was just my usual reflection, but it seemed like more of an out-of-body experience this time. What was I doing here, trapped inside a stuffy office for eight hours a day? Is this how I envisioned myself when I was my daughter’s age? It reminded me of something my drama instructor once said. I believe it was a quote from Francois Truffaut (and I am probably mangling it), but it went something like this: “How many of us, back when we were teenagers, if we could have seen ourselves in middle age would not have immediately committed suicide?”
The experience made me think of probably the most important thing my father ever told me. I was in the back bedroom of our home in Mill Valley and I don’t remember how the conversation started, but we got on the subject of finances. He told me that he thought the old adage, “Time is money” was wrong. According to his thinking, the real equation should be, “Money is time.”
From an arithmetic sense, the two should have equal meaning. But, from a philosophical point of view, they couldn’t be further apart. “Time is money” suggests that the purpose of time is increase wealth. It's frequently used to convey the message that if you are wasting time, you are passing by on limited opportunities to get ahead in the world. What it doesn’t address is the issue of why you are compelled to increase wealth in the first place. Presumably, the answer is to acquire more “stuff” than your neighbor. Or as a 1980s bumper sticker once proclaimed, “He who dies with the most toys, wins.”
No, my dad argued, “Money is time.” That is, if you want to have more money to buy more things, the deal with the devil is that you must give up a portion of the most valuable commodity you have – your life. In other words, imagine every day as a slice of your time on this planet. Then, everything you buy is exchanged for a number of days working at some job that is probably less enjoyable than whatever you would be doing if you didn’t have to work.
Ferenc Mate, the author of A Reasonable Life, puts it this way: Let’s assume you are building a house and decide that your simply must have the three-car garage that only adds, say, $100,000 to the $900,000 cost (not out of the ballpark, here in Marin County). Reasonable enough, you might say. Then, figure that roughly $100,000 in interest will be paid to service that $100,000 in principal over the period of a 30-year loan at 5% interest. So, your garage now costs approximately $200,000. Now, let’s assume you and your spouse earn $150,000 per year and manage to keep $100,000 after taxes. I’ve simplified the math quite a bit, but that’s two years of both of you working at your job, rather than spending time with your kids, traveling, gardening or just enjoying each other’s company - all for a garage.
Two years may not seem so important, but as I see elderly residents of my father’s assisted care facility clinging to the last few days, weeks, or months of their lives, I wonder how many of them would have liked to have swapped some of those years they spent in the rat race for time spent really enjoying life, back when they were able?
But perhaps you are not planning on buying a $900,000 home. As I look out my window, I can see the top of Mt. Tamalpais. I have ridden up there many times, up the Old Railroad Grade, right up to below the fire lookout I can see from here. Would a $4,000 mountain bike make the climb that much more enjoyable? If so, then I need to prepare to spend at least two more months at my keyboard, entering data, instead of riding.
Ultimately, there is a cost to everything we buy, and it is a slice of our life, lopped off our limited number of days on this planet. That isn’t to say that some things aren’t worth earning. Just that it is good to keep desire and happiness in perspective.
I plan to spend some of my time, once I am officially laid off, contemplating that equation and weighing the trade-offs in my life, as I plan my next move. I will be doing my contemplating, however, atop my $35 mountain bike, climbing up past the Double Bowknot on my way to the summit. I will also be thinking of my father, whose wisdom is no less valid today than it was when he offered it thirty-five years ago.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rovers and Samaritans
My friend and co-worker, Jacquie, got into a fender-bender yesterday. Nothing major, but she had an annoying 20-minute wait because the lady who rear-ended her insisted on filing a police report. When the cop finally arrived and informed the other driver that she was clearly at fault, she quickly changed her tune. Meanwhile, Jacquie wasted almost her entire lunch hour.
That was not the case when I experienced my first car accident as a driver.
I was playing the Good Samaritan (one of my favorite roles) and had just gone quite a bit out of my way to give my friend, Steve Barker, a ride to his girlfriend’s home in Sherman Oaks. It was pouring rain and I was behind the wheel my ageing Rover 2000 TC sedan, which I had cobbled together from two more-or-less complete cars. The Rover got me around Hollywood pretty well, as long as I remembered to park on a hill somewhere, where I could bump-start it. Some days were better than others. It once took me at least a mile of attempted bump starts down Western Avenue to wake up my recalcitrant engine.
I dropped Steve off and started heading back to the Ventura Freeway. My route took me under the highway to the onramp on the other side. Unfortunately, I didn’t see that the underpass had now collected six inches of standing water. As the Rover hit the long puddle, it started hydro-planing at thirty-miles an hour. I surfed straight through the underpass and then “hung ten” up the slight hill to street level, which thankfully slowed me down a bit. Not enough, though. With a resounding crunch, I ploughed into the back of a pickup truck waiting at the stop light – which I then pushed into the back of a police cruiser.
Needless to say, I didn’t have to wait twenty minutes for my report. The cop was very accommodating. The driver of the pickup truck and I exchanged insurance information and he left, since the damage was mostly to his rear bumper.
The Rover was decidedly more corrugated. I tried to re-start it, but it only ran for a few seconds before dying. The cop pushed my car to a side street where he was kind enough to take pity by not writing me a ticket. “You’ve got enough problems already,” was his parting comment. How true. I found a toll booth and called AAA. It was still pouring rain.
When the tow truck guy arrived, he informed me that he couldn’t take me back to my apartment in Hollywood, since it was outside of the approved radius. I wracked my brain for where to deposit my heap of crumpled metal. The only people I knew in the area were Si and Sarah Simon. They were friends of our family and had given me some handyman work several months back.
They weren’t home when I called, but I somehow navigated the tow truck to their house, where I sat on their porch until nearly 10 pm. I am sure they weren’t expecting to have to drive me home after their night out, but they did so without complaining. Good Samaritans looking out after another of their kind. I felt bad about leaving such an eyesore at their curb, but what else could I do?
As I spent the next two days repairing the Rover and straightening out the fender and front-end as best I could, using hammers and metal bending tools inherited from my father’s orthopedic practice, I discovered the reason my car wouldn’t start.
It turns out that some British engineer somewhere had decided that the optimum material for a fuel pump reservoir should be glass. Yes, glass. Presumably, the intention was so one could admire the gasoline gathering inside. Nevertheless, it seemed like a frivolous substance for such a vital piece of equipment. It’s a bit like making an artificial heart pump out of peanut brittle. Now, can you guess what the only part was that broke in the crash?
There is a joke among mechanics who work on British cars, with their often quirky design and legendarily unreliable Lucas electrical systems: Do you know the definition of “apprehension”? Answer: A man with a Lucas pacemaker. Sort of like a glass fuel pump, don’t you think?
That was not the case when I experienced my first car accident as a driver.
I was playing the Good Samaritan (one of my favorite roles) and had just gone quite a bit out of my way to give my friend, Steve Barker, a ride to his girlfriend’s home in Sherman Oaks. It was pouring rain and I was behind the wheel my ageing Rover 2000 TC sedan, which I had cobbled together from two more-or-less complete cars. The Rover got me around Hollywood pretty well, as long as I remembered to park on a hill somewhere, where I could bump-start it. Some days were better than others. It once took me at least a mile of attempted bump starts down Western Avenue to wake up my recalcitrant engine.
I dropped Steve off and started heading back to the Ventura Freeway. My route took me under the highway to the onramp on the other side. Unfortunately, I didn’t see that the underpass had now collected six inches of standing water. As the Rover hit the long puddle, it started hydro-planing at thirty-miles an hour. I surfed straight through the underpass and then “hung ten” up the slight hill to street level, which thankfully slowed me down a bit. Not enough, though. With a resounding crunch, I ploughed into the back of a pickup truck waiting at the stop light – which I then pushed into the back of a police cruiser.
Needless to say, I didn’t have to wait twenty minutes for my report. The cop was very accommodating. The driver of the pickup truck and I exchanged insurance information and he left, since the damage was mostly to his rear bumper.
The Rover was decidedly more corrugated. I tried to re-start it, but it only ran for a few seconds before dying. The cop pushed my car to a side street where he was kind enough to take pity by not writing me a ticket. “You’ve got enough problems already,” was his parting comment. How true. I found a toll booth and called AAA. It was still pouring rain.
When the tow truck guy arrived, he informed me that he couldn’t take me back to my apartment in Hollywood, since it was outside of the approved radius. I wracked my brain for where to deposit my heap of crumpled metal. The only people I knew in the area were Si and Sarah Simon. They were friends of our family and had given me some handyman work several months back.
They weren’t home when I called, but I somehow navigated the tow truck to their house, where I sat on their porch until nearly 10 pm. I am sure they weren’t expecting to have to drive me home after their night out, but they did so without complaining. Good Samaritans looking out after another of their kind. I felt bad about leaving such an eyesore at their curb, but what else could I do?
As I spent the next two days repairing the Rover and straightening out the fender and front-end as best I could, using hammers and metal bending tools inherited from my father’s orthopedic practice, I discovered the reason my car wouldn’t start.
It turns out that some British engineer somewhere had decided that the optimum material for a fuel pump reservoir should be glass. Yes, glass. Presumably, the intention was so one could admire the gasoline gathering inside. Nevertheless, it seemed like a frivolous substance for such a vital piece of equipment. It’s a bit like making an artificial heart pump out of peanut brittle. Now, can you guess what the only part was that broke in the crash?
There is a joke among mechanics who work on British cars, with their often quirky design and legendarily unreliable Lucas electrical systems: Do you know the definition of “apprehension”? Answer: A man with a Lucas pacemaker. Sort of like a glass fuel pump, don’t you think?
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