I’m Rich! Rich! Rich!
If time is money, my bad math finally paid off.
I’m embarrassed to admit how bad I am at math. I never “got” it; back in the day, any good math grades were the result of hardcore study. I still sometimes mentally count on my fingers.
Now, my Epic Math Deficiency has made me rich. Let me explain.
My birthday is in September. Each year as it gets close, I spend a ridiculous amount of time in self-indulgent regrets: Lost youth, love, opportunity, health, and friends. I’m awash in shoulda-coulda-woulda. You name it, I parade it through my head in the wee small hours of the morning, wallowing in a smorgasbord of self-pitying crap.
This year, 2022, I expected to turn 76. For the past year, I mourned the fact that I was 75, turning 76, and of course, from 76 on, everyone knows it’s downhill all the way to 80. Warp speed. 80! 80! 80! Then, the grave. Somewhere I picked up the nutty idea that turning 76 was the beginning of the end. Add some health issues (to be expected), and I dreaded this September birthday.
Except I did the math wrong.
I’m not 75 turning 76. I’m 74, turning 75. (Or am I? I am so confused). But it appears — it seems — that I am not yet 75 but will be in a few days. How did I find out that I was so very wrong? Yesterday I was running my mouth, feeling sorry for myself, 75 going on 76 and death, etc., and my daughter said “What are you talking about? You’re 74 turning 75. Do the math.”
She showed me. Hmmm. Knock me over with a feather. Seems as though she might be right (I hate being wrong). But she’s an attorney and no slouch with numbers. Then it hit me. If I’m not 75 going on 76, but rather, 74, turning 75, what does that mean?
It means: Time is money, and I just hit the jackpot. In my head — the only place it really counts — I picked up an extra year.
It occurred to me that if I’m so bad at math that I can’t tell my age, I’ll accept that I’m 74. Never mind if it’s right or wrong; I am whatever age I am. I have whatever time I have left. Think about it. Past a certain age, all age is fake, isn’t it? Fake, and wrong, and the number doesn’t tell the truth anyway. Numbers lie. So why waste a year mourning a fake, lying number?
Two choices: I could spend next year at 75 mourning (yet again) that I was on the express train to the grave, or I could pronounce Year 75 GONE FOREVER (been there, done that) and celebrate the wealth of the extra year I’d just acquired.
Oh, you say, this woman is ridiculous. Pish-posh. Call a math expert, lady. Get a definitive answer on how old you are. No, I say: I kind of like this confusion, and my new riches: A whole year. Before you cluck your tongue, I ask you: Who gets to decide? About my time, I mean.
Me. Only me.
Until now, I labeled my time with bad numbers that turned out not to be true. Or maybe they are true. I no longer care one way or another. Something happened in my head: I switched onto a different track, the one that says “Spend it wisely.” In other words, whatever I have, the only thing I should care about is how I spend it.
Because fact: It’s limited, like Steve Jobs said, gobsmacked by the relentless and inexorable march of his own time.
Time is something I can’t acquire with money. I can’t replace the time I lost or wasted. I can’t add more time by searching for some mythical parking meter into which I can shove cosmic quarters and extend my time on earth.
I have time until I don’t.
Math right? Or math wrong? Either way, I wasted last year dithering. Today’s gift of a year’s worth of time changed my thinking. I feel rich, rich, rich.
So, what shall I do with my newfound wealth? For starters, expand my bucket list. Make it so long that my time runs out before the list does. F#$%^! the actual number.
I have time until I don’t.
Second, I’ll spend my time carefully. Think about my choices. Would I spend time with someone I know will take money from my purse? No. Would I spend precious hours or minutes, with someone or something I know will steal my time? No.
Time is the only commodity I can’t replace, buy, trade, or acquire. But I am the one who’s guilty of inviting thieves of time into my life: Stuff. Events. Certain people. Bad math. Petty conversations. Family drama. Social media. My own anger, sometimes. Rumination. Regrets. Stuff I can’t let go of, including past mistakes. Real estate I rent in my head to worthless actions or people or things. And yes, parading regrets past the foot of my bed in the middle of the night.
Example: I’d been doing some home repairs. I had some expensive 6” x 6” x 16’ treated beams delivered. Three were left over after the job was done. At the end of the day, I was tired and thought I’d bring them inside in the morning. They’ll be okay on the lawn overnight, I told myself. Nope. Someone stole them from my front yard. I just couldn’t let go of it: No way to get them back. No way to catch the crook. They were gone. Let it go, Diana, I told myself. But I couldn’t.
A thief stole the lumber. But I was the one who let in the thief of time. I can’t get back the beams. Worse, I can’t get back the time I wasted gnawing on that bone.
Now, I’m rich! Rich! Rich! Note to self: Do not spend your wealth on thieves of time.
