Hard Truths

I think I’ve zeroed in on what makes time go by so fast: it’s the wishing away of days leading to the monthly infusion of funds from Social Security and my pension. Those days at the end of a month can’t come fast enough, and I find myself spending a good portion of the intervening time in a maddening idleness and lament, keeping up with bills that cycle and drain the checking account too quickly, mindful of how much money we fritter away on utilities and mortgage and freaking health insurance premiums, and what, as a result, is unavailable to spend on an enjoyable day trip or overnight at the shore or meal at a place other than Wendy’s.

It’s kind of like we’re in a prison of our (my) own making, where I have no right to complain about the lack of funds, but I do anyway, as if complaining will somehow hasten some better day. Actually, I don’t complain out loud. I just feel the stress every day, sometimes mope around, angry that my vocational choices and lack of ambition haven’t magically resulted in a level of comfort beyond what feels most days like a struggle to maintain a roof over our heads and food on the table.

We’ve always, to some extent, lived beyond our means, and I am too proud or stubborn—or embarrassed—to face certain realities and make hard decisions.

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