One of the websites I belong to asks what we would do if we won $100 million.
I know. First thing after I came to and changed my drawers, I'd go the E.R. to have my heart zapped back to normal. Then, I'd dance a major-league Happy Dance.
Then, I'd give half the money to my church and its schools; pay off the debts of our kids, my inlaws and my outlaws; then buy a log cabin in the Rockies. I'd immediately move in and get to wondering just howintheheck I'd won all that money when I didn't enter anything.
But, hey. it could happen...! We never know what the future holds, do we?
I mean, in 10 years, I may have written a tell-all book, or the ultimate crotch novel. Or even the ultimate tell-all crotch book! So if any of you ever has told me anything in confidence, get your alibis ready.
Almost as important, but maybe not, I hope in 10 years to be coherent, relatively speaking. When I was younger, I thought folks as old as I am now spent most of their time comparing operation scars, trying to remember where they left their keys and drooling on themselves. I was soooo completely...right. (Okay, okay. I'm kidding. I was wrong.)
Almost a year into retirement, I have more to do than I did when I was working. The difference is, it's varied, there's no pressure to do it, and I get to do what I want when I want for however long I want. And I hardly ever drool.
Moreover, I don't think I'll ever run out of little projects to finish, people to visit, experiences to have, places to see, politicians to complain about and stupidity to marvel over. I find myself a bit more romantic, as well, now that I have a little time to work myself up to it.
Some 25 to 30 books I haven't yet read await me on the shelves, and if I can ever find my reading glasses, I'll read a couple. We also have about 25 pounds of photos to be scanned, repaired/enhanced and printed or catalogued. That's somewhere near a good peck-basketful to you and me -- well, to me, at least.
I'd also like to learn Spanish, something more socially acceptable than the bar language I picked up in Puerto Rico (not that P.R. is a low place, but we former sailors cultivated friends in low places.). Also in 10 years, maybe I'll have finally grown up....Realistically, probably not. I'm really just a 15-year-old in baggy, wrinkled skin.
Patmywife tells me I'm closer to a 9-year-old and to zip up my fly. I think she just doesn't want to cut the breadcrusts off my PB&Js anymore. But she'll be sorry. I'm holding my breath 'til I turn blue....
Okay, I'm done. Can't hold it any more. Besides, In 10 years, I just may have learned to tango -- if I can still move.
Then, maybe, I'll just dance....