No, I’m not talking about the shiny round objects or brand new toys or things that come packaged in pretty wrapping.
I’m talking about the little moments that you’ll look back on when you’re eighty, when the highlights of your life spin in the theater of your near-absent mind like an old cinematic reel, and you’re like, “Damn, those were the days that really counted.”
It’s times like last night where you and your friends get together and throw a random ghetto barbeque with 5 dollar steaks from Albertson’s and a juicy 16 pound watermelon. It’s playing an intense game of Settlers with competitive friends who were willing to sacrifice all their cards just to prevent that one guy from winning it all with the longest road. (He won anyway, but not without some heavy consorting and scheming from the self-appointed UN council). It’s then playing a Wii Baseball tournament onto the wee hours of the night, and screaming like little kids when you hit a walk-off to win the La Mirada Bachelors’ World Series.
It’s all quite ridiculous, really. But I’ll cherish and remember these sillier times, times when the soul is learning to breathe again and be free.
Sometimes you get so busy making a living you forget what it means to make a life.
Yeah, money’s important. We need it to survive. But we don’t need it to feel alive.
In fact, the drive for money will eventually choke you out. In the end you’ll just find yourself enslaved to dead presidents.
Money can’t buy joy. Nor can it buy two more roads to snatch the longest road. Damn.