Lately I have been thinking about money a good deal. Isn’t it funny how you always end up thinking about the things you don’t have? Nope. Especially when those things are either money or sex. It is funny when those things are rickets, though. Rickets.
I’ve always envied those famous and wealthy people who say, in television interviews, that they are the luckiest people alive because they get to make money doing the things they love. I suppose anyone could pull that off in theory, by learning to love whatever it is they’re stuck doing. However, I’ve noticed that it’s mostly writers and actors and rock stars who say that kind of thing. Have you ever heard a dentist tell an interviewer, “I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do this.”? Then again, how many dentists do you see interviewed on television? Not too many. Maybe they have bad publicists.
In the beginning of my junior year of college, after working long hours at two separate summer jobs which left me exhausted at the end of the day, it began to occur to me that in a lot of ways, Money and Fun appeared to be mutually exclusive. By this I mean I couldn’t have the one if I was working to get the other. But, if I didn’t work to get the other, then the one often meant going to a movie at the $3 theatre and eating sugar packets.
After careful deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that right now there are four ways for me to get more money.
1) Work hard at an honest job and build a career.
3) Marry rich.
4) Search the pockets of all my pants.
The last idea is definitely the most appealing at the moment. In fact, I think I’ll go and do that right now. It isn’t that I don’t want to work; I would just prefer to already be successful. I really think I’d have a talent for coasting. Give me a critically acclaimed bestseller under my belt and I’ll spend my days in Italy eating omelets and struggling with writer’s block while the tabloids whisper about how I might never write the Great American Novel again. It’s not the success and fame I fear, it’s the effort it takes to get them.
I do have a job right now, but it’s definitely not in the field I studied in college. In fact, my college degree (in Literature, with a concentration in Creative Writing) feels a little less impressive with each relative and stranger alike who asks, “But what are you going to do with it?” I got the damn degree, shouldn’t that be enough? Nobody asks you that question when you have a baby, and that takes less than a year. Fine, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with it. But first I’m going to go rummage through my pants.