My Black is NOT Cracking.

Neil Diamond and Sweet Caroline are in heavy rotation in the office. By 2 PM I can barely breathe between the yawns. The busy boredom of soul-sucking work. The people are great. The environment, for the most part, is relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that while filing, I find myself wondering exactly who the first person was that bomp, bomp, bomped during Sweet Caroline.

Was it spontaneous? Was there a meeting? Did one drunk guy at a baseball game start it and the rest of humanity collectively decide, “Yes. I’m in!”

These are the thoughts you have when your spirit quietly leaves your body somewhere between spreadsheet tabs three and four and stacks of checks not payable to you.

I struggle to balance what I want to do versus what I need to do. I’ve worked in finance and accounting for most of my professional life. Before that, banking. Apparently, my destiny has always involved fluorescent lighting and explaining numbers to people who pretend to understand depreciation schedules.

I always had side businesses that involved working with creative individuals and businesses, although still mostly dealing with numbers, with the exception of catering. Mostly, I managed finances for small businesses and artists. Even my work in music, film and television revolved around budgets and numbers. Apparently, no matter where I went, the calculator followed me.

Not sure why suddenly this all feels like the equivalent of having needles stuck in my eyes. Maybe because at this age, your tolerance for time wasting drops dramatically., along with your collagen levels and your ability to not say what’s on your mind.

I’m questioning the use and value of my very precious time and talent. My need for sixteen new windows that will hopefully reduce the exorbitant heating and AC bills of this past winter — AND SPRING. WHY is my heat on in May? Why am I paying utility bills that look like ransom notes from the gas company?

Then there are refinished floors damaged by a turtle that once resided in the home. Yes. A turtle. Which somehow sounds less ridiculous than the estimate to repair the damage. Replacing a washer that decided I only needed to wash whites and a dryer possessed, that stops and starts when it gets good and damn ready. Replacing a toilet that has experienced its last ass and flush. Refinishing a space the previous owners gutted and abandoned like a home improvement crime scene.

The lack of insulation in that space has also been costly, so the investment now will hopefully reduce the utility bills and increase the home’s value. At this point, I’m basically in a committed financial relationship with Lowe’s and contractors who begin every sentence with, “Well… see the problem here is…”

Then there’s delayed dental work equivalent to the cost of a newer-model used car and health insurance premiums almost equal to the mortgage. Nothing humbles you quite like realizing your mouth now contains the resale value of a 2018 Honda Civic.

It is a sad state of affairs when you cannot wait to turn 65 and qualify for medicare! I was excited about programs NJ offers for seniors to reduce their real estate tax burden, (THE HIGHEST IN THE COUNTRY BY THE WAY! I guess maintaining that smell around Exit 13 on the NJ Turnpike is costly!) until our new governor decided, “Yeah, let’s take money from the seniors in NJ who have been paying taxes in the state the longest!”  Makes total sense. NOT!  Gee, thanks Mikie!

The debits and credits are definitely out of balance, and I know many seniors find themselves in a similar situation. (ESPECIALLY IN NJ) Somewhere between trying to survive financially and trying not to waste whatever years we have left doing things that slowly kill us from the inside out.

Because that’s really what this is about. Not laziness. I have no desire to SIT around counting weeds springing up five minutes after I pulled them.  It is not irresponsibility, or some unrealistic fantasy about “following your passion.”

Now that I think about it, it’s actually balancing my financial needs with my heart’s desires and my soul’s calling. Which sounds beautiful and inspirational until you realize your soul’s calling doesn’t pay for windows, dental implants, insulation, appliances, or the toilet that finally gave up after decades of faithful service.  I saw the asses of the sellers. That toilet owes the world nothing.

Still… something shifts as you get older. You become painfully aware that time is no longer an unlimited resource. You stop asking, “What should I do for a living?” and start asking, “What should I do for a life?”

And honestly? If I hear BOMP, BOMP, BOMP one more time this week, I may quit and open a roadside stand selling sage bundles, sarcasm, and emotional support snacks for women over sixty trying to reinvent themselves before Medicare kicks in.