There's your sign

Last night some friends invited me over for pizza. They were all giddy about the impending holiday and chattered about their Halloween decorations and costumes. That would obviate any need to identify their gender. Noting my lack of participation in the conversation, they asked what I thought. I told them the whole thing was inane and I dreaded sitting around for hours one night a year just to pass out candy to kids I didn’t know and wouldn’t see for another year. They said that was a sign I’ve turned into an old curmudgeon. I beg to differ. I cannot remember generating any excitement since hanging up my mask and bag. This morning I awoke and trudged to the bathroom to take care of first things first. As I stood there performing the rite, my half-closed eyes wandered over to the sink and snapped open. The Blob? An amorphic figure perched there and appeared to grow before my eyes. Was this my punishment for besmirching the spirit of Halloween? Buttoning back up (I sometimes remember), I cautiously moved closer to determine the source of this emanation. It was the base of a can of shaving cream. I carefully picked it up and discovered a pinhole leak. Now that is a sign. Since retiring, I seldom shave unless an occasion absolutely demands it. When your shaving cream can rusts through before it’s empty, you just may be getting old.

Good enough

I should work for the government. Number one thing on the to-do list today was to use a couple outdoor store gift certificates that had started to gather dust. It did not require the superhuman effort it often does to compel myself to adhere to the job plan. So, I start the day with a $50 surplus. Transportation will eat into that for about five bucks, as there are two stores to visit. I cruised the first store. There was an item for $80 that was fairly cool and one for $40 that I could actually use. After no small amount of pondering, I opted for the latter. Oh what a good boy am I. Burn a $25 gift card and I’m out of there for only fifteen bucks. The cashier can’t leave well enough alone. She tells me about a special that would knock 25% off of an item priced over $50. So, the $80 becomes $60. That makes it like $20 of free money. I’m paraphrasing the diminutive devil on my left shoulder. Somehow, I resist. On to the next test. I have researched the product line in advance and have decided to apply this certificate to one of two items, each priced at $75. Seeing them up close should make that decision. It did. I want them both. To regain control, I walk around the store. Mistake. There, on a manikin built like no one I know (certainly not me), is the coolest jacket I have ever seen. The trouble is, I already own one (maybe two) within its functional range. But, you live only once. For the coolest jacket on earth, what’s a hundred bucks? Or, one-fifty, tops. I check the price tag. Okay, $300 may be a deal breaker. Or, maybe not. I groan loud enough for most people in the store to turn my way. Okay, if I forgo the item I came in here for, it really only costs $225, less the gift card. That’s starting to come into range. If I ditch both of the products in the original choice, it’s down to only $150. Heck, if I pass on a few more items I never intended to buy, it’s free. I’d be a fool to pass that up. Yes, I actually have thoughts like that. I notice that I’m breathing heavily. Time to walk. But, I owe it due consideration. I’ll try it on. This could be a fatal error. The coat looks absolutely fantastic in the mirror. But, I still look like an old fat guy. An old fat guy in a great jacket, but still not worth the money. This was a worthwhile exercise. I reluctantly return it to the rack and limp back to my original target items. I’m hurting and wind up salving my wounds by purchasing both. After all, I did factor that scenario into at least one of my calculations, so it must be a valid option. On the drive home, I’m stricken with guilt. That adds another five bucks of cost for the Graeter’s ice cream to salve the wounds. Let’s recap. I began the day with a $50 surplus. My ending balance is a $150 deficit. Still not good enough for government work. I get a call from a friend. She states her business but I know that’s not the purpose of the call. She rates men somewhere between baboons and paramecium and periodically catches up with me to justify her conclusions. And, she was aware of my impending shopping trip, which provided another opportunity to verify low brain function. That was the second and primary item on her call agenda. Quick calculation. While I did run a loss, I also declined a costly item in each of the stores. So, I really came out $210 to the good, which is how I reported it to her. That is good enough for government work.

Vote for me

Write me in on Election Day and I will inject billions of dollars into the economy, which will buy goods and create thousands of jobs. Unlike politicians, I have a concrete and viable plan. On my dresser, I have mugs of loose change and will continue to do so as long as my bank is of no help and the pirate machines at the grocery store take 10% off the top. I estimate the amount to be somewhere between thirty and a million dollars (never could guess the number of M&Ms in a jar). Let’s call it thirty-five bucks. Assuming that’s close to the average for Americans, that’s over a billion dollars in dormant purchasing power. Put a coin converting machine is every Post Office (that doesn’t exact the vig) that puts this money back into the game and it buys product and creates employment which, in turn, generates more purchases with the multiplier effect.

At this stage of the game

Last week, I hurried through my workout to pick up a friend for lunch at her place of business. When I returned home, I found an email from her. “Thought you’d enjoy that one of the girls in the office said she wished she had a hunk come by and take her out to eat.” I shrugged. This morning, I had my annual physical. After the always-popular digital probe, the doctor informed me, “You have the prostate gland of a 50-year-old.” I never thought I’d see the day when the latter compliment was preferable to the former. But, it’s here.

You reap what you sow

I was entering the supermarket when a young man (11 or 12 years of age) stepped into my path, jiggling a beverage cup from a fast food franchise half full of change. He was attired in the latest fashion of his generation, so I didn’t take him to be needy. “Cash for me to build a clubhouse.” It wasn’t a question. I declined to contribute, noting that the leaves would be falling soon. I suggested he go around now to line up raking jobs to finance his construction. “Why should I do that?” he replied, somewhat indignantly. “You have more money than me. You should pay for it.” “Where did you get that idea?” He drew himself up to his full height and regarded me with nothing short of scorn for the ignorant. “From the President of the United States.” Yes, that’s what it’s come to and where it’s going.

It's not where you paddle...

“Looked like a nice trip,” said the email from a kayaking friend who had viewed a photo album I just posted. “One of the best I’ve been on.” “Really? It didn’t look as exotic as some of the places you go.” It wasn’t, but there were two things that didn’t come through in the pictures. First, the conditions were awesome. The air was warm and Lake Michigan provided enough waves to make it interesting without making some of the less experienced paddlers nervous. More importantly, the group chemistry was amazing. Pull together a party of any size and you’ll probably get a cross section of society. That is, it’ll include some issues people, complainers, and others who detract from the experience. This group was pure fun people making the event extraordinarily enjoyable from beginning to end. It’s not so much where you paddle, it’s who you paddle with.

Lock-ins

In the locker room, Clem was bemoaning his outcomes in trying to get his wife to work out. “I told her, black women tend to pile up that fat in a few places and it don’t look good no how.” I don’t know what Clem does for a living, but I’d hazard a guess it’s not a position where he’s required to motivate people. Probably not a marriage counselor, either. “I says, the hardest part is starting out. Once you’ve got your lock-in, you’re there.” I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but thought we were close. I’ve never used the term but I’m looking at it as the point where you’ve already invested so much, you’re not going to back out. That could be good or it could be bad. It probably helps me drag my old and aching bones to the gym. On the other hand, I don’t take a day off when I probably should and I agonize when I miss a number of sessions. I try to be rational about this, whether it applies to the gym or anything else. It’s not unusual to let lock-in dictate your actions when you’ve started a business, gotten into a relationship or whatever. You’ve got to know when to hold them and when to fold them. It’s much better to manage your lock-ins than to have them manage you. The first step is discerning the difference between a lock-in and a perceived one. My children are a lock-in. Right or wrong, I’ll be behind them, now and forever. That’s real. I recall what I think was my first revelation of a perceived lock-in. My first corporate job out of college was with a huge company and I was doing quite well; good salary, fantastic benefits, job security and a bright future. But, it wasn’t me. At first, it didn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t that happy with it because, with a young family, that appeared to be the only logical course of action. What brought it into focus was that I conceived a creative strategic move to capitalize on a piece of impending legislation. The top brass thought it was brilliant but wanted to run it through the bureaucratic red tape process. This strained out key elements and delayed implementation well beyond a year. And, well beyond the point of striking while the iron was hot. When the time came that I received the go-code (“And you’d better make this work.”), the window of opportunity had passed. Instead of beating the dead horse, I revisited the assumption that I was locked into this job and asked who I was. At that point, I decided to go entrepreneurial and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. More recently, an organization I’ve been integral to for a long time took a bad turn at the direction of the chairman. He assumed I had so much of myself invested in it, I’d have little choice but to support the new narrative. He assumed wrong. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was a very good one. So, one key to happiness is managing your lock-ins instead of letting them manage you. You are better off making your own decisions than allowing them to be made for you.