I’m a busy guy. I manage two writing centers at a community college in San Antonio, Texas, USA. That takes fifty hours per week. My wife has a business that I help with. I take care of her purchasing, public relations, and I occasionally assist her with sales. On top of all that, I write, make art, and engage in my own entrepreneurial activities.
As you can see, I do a lot. Too much, really.
I’m getting older. When I look in the mirror, I see clear changes in my face and body. Unfortunately, my wife is a picture person, meaning that she likes to frame and hang photos of us and other family members in all sorts of places. As a result, there are younger versions of me everywhere. On our fridge, held down to the metal surface by a magnet I purchased as a souvenir during a trip to Portugal, there’s a photo of me in my football uniform during my high school years. And on our antique chest of drawers, there’s a framed pic of me in college. In that one, my hair is fuller and redder. Today, my coif is much less prodigious and mostly salt-and-pepper (more salt than pepper) gray. There’s also a youthful confidence that I see less of these days. It’s in the smile and around the eyes.
It’s odd, this thing called time. When I was younger—when I was the person I see in those old photos—it seems that I did more but suffered less while doing it. I’m certain I had less free time than I have even today, but I felt freer. I felt less encumbered than I do now.
I guess I’m a different person now than I used to be. Actually, there’s no guessing about it. I am different now.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the word “retirement” more than I used to. Writing that last sentence reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend not long ago. He said that people retire from work, but they shouldn’t retire from life. He’s right about that.
The following thought just suddenly popped into my mind: The person who created money was an evil person indeed.
Of course, money makes the world go around. That’s the realist in me speaking.
Maybe I was less of a realist when I was younger? I need to think about this question.
My whole life has been spent in the effort of trying to “understand” things. Perhaps this was a mistake? I need to think about this question too.
There are always lots of questions to think about.
I’m finding myself more and more occupied with the task of trying to reconcile the young version of Troy with the Troy I now am. That’s likely a fool’s errand.
If you’re still here, reading this, and you’ve made it all the way to the end, I applaud your perseverance. Give yourself a big hand.