You know how people say, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead?” Yeah, I’ll retire when I’m dead. And then, after I’ve been given the answers to all my questions and have been shown where the ice cream parlor is, I’m sure I’ll take an afterlife job. I dunno, maybe teaching young eager souls, growing supernatural flowers in a weedless garden, or mediating land disputes between lap giraffes and miniature sheep. It’s really anyone’s best guess, but I guarantee you, I’ll be busy not makin monies.
Anyway, my point is I generally don’t think about retirement. I generally think about how to do all, all, all the things.
Except, recently I thought about retirement. Lemme tell you why.
I met Benson for lunch.
When I arrived at Texas Margaritas, Benson, hep cat that he is, was already seated.
He had not been at work, on the phone with the big corporation and their infernal muzak, running the gamut of the five incompetent people one must explain to before reaching that sixth magical person who is smart enough to understand the discrepancy.
While I was doing that, Benson was ordering some chips and salsa and a margarita.
By the time I was peeking into my shrimp quesadilla, he was ordering his second margarita. I ordered a Mr Pibb. And I loved it. I did. But it was not a margarita, because I am not retired. And given how blurry my pictures are, I really didn’t need the caffeine and I prolly could have benefited from a margarita because I’m spazzy and frenetic enough. When my Pibb was all gone, I drank my water like a good workhorse should.
Cause it was not a weekend. It was not vacation. For me. For Benson, it’s all weekend vacation margarita time, and so I envied him just a teeny tiny bit because margaritas are delicious.
Y’all, I dunno what I’m doin this weekend, but Imma try to wear my Converse and drink margaritas. If you’re able, I highly recommend you do the same.
Happy Friday Everyone!