Retirement at 23
The last time I was on here, I bid to myself to write more. Not only for my own benefit of practicing writing, sharing my thoughts, becoming a better storyteller, but to also share my personal experience with others, to share my gifts from the globe, minuscule to mind-blowing (getting a little presumptuous here).
I let a month go by, and looking back on it, I know for a fact I could've done better. Should have done better. I need to work more on this, and also work on using my YMCA membership. I love this work-life balance I'm getting going here. Clearly I'm good at it.
Which reminds me, I forgot to share where I live now. After my recent escapade in Bahrain, which was after working at summer camp in Bemidji, I'm currently playing house in Marco Island, Florida and working at the Naples Botanical Garden. A new step in a relatively similar direction to my original projection of adulthood. I'd say I'm chugging along.
Marco Island is an unique location. The island is less than 60 years old, and it hardly has any citizens under that same age. I'm an anomaly down here, it seems. I'm not retired, I'm single, I'm not a "snowbird," though I sure am related to some future snowbirds, and, oh, and I'm young as all get out. I go to fish fry's at the Resident's Beach and watch local Jimmy Buffet-inspired artists do their thing, I nearly die twice a day on my bike simply because my fellow islander tourists don't realize that crosswalk signs are actually respected on this island, and sometimes I eat ice cream and people watch, as in, I watch people, people don't watch me eating ice cream. It's not that absurd over here.
To truly lay out the case for my predicament, I must share a story. The other day, I finished work relatively early in the afternoon, about 2pm I think. I drove back to the island, did some laundry, and because I ate a late lunch, I wasn't hungry; but not being hungry doesn't justify not getting ice cream. So I got ice cream. At 5pm. On a Tuesday. And as I was enjoying my single scoop Rocky Road, a lady came out of the building a few doors down and made her little old lady shuffle over to her car parked in front of me. As she came closer, I realized she was mid-conversation, and I was unknowingly included in that conversation.
"Oh, it's such a great day to have ice cream. But I'm just not hungry, you know? And nowadays, I can't just eat ice cream whenever. Well I guess I can! Oh, but not today--what's that noise?"
Consider this a rhetorical conversation if there ever was one. Her phone was buzzing in her purse, and she managed to haul it out of her Mary Poppins bag as the last ring went off. She mumbled on about something, standing in front of me, eyes expressively glued to her screen, as I sat in my rod-iron chair in front of Sweet Annie's Ice Cream Parlor, which has the parlor seats and bartop with puzzles and doodahs for sale all over the place and an attached sitting/arcade room, "cleaning up" my ice cream cone, as my mother taught me how to do.
"That was my sister. She called and left me two voicemails. Let's see what they're about."
And as I wiggle out a protruding almond slice from my scoop, giving myself a chocolate lip liner, this lady begins to dictate her voicemails to me. I've finished off about a third of my scoop above the cone line (it's a sugar cone), and she turns to make her way to her car, still talking about her sister, who supposedly is coming down to visit her on the 14th of next month and only likes a certain type of deli meat, and she doesn't have time today to go find out where she can buy it so she can prepare even though she has more than 30 days to prepare.
She luckily already has her keys in her hand, unlocks her door, opens it and smiles at me, and loads up and rips out of there like only people who shouldn't be driving can. I didn't speak a word. I just ate my cone. That was better than TV. I watched her pull out of the parking lot and my brain finally kicked in and I burst out laughing, launching my nose into my cone and then having to nonchalantly rub it off while not looking like the complete idiot I already was.
Had anyone else been there, I'm sure the entire situation would have panned out differently. I don't really have a grasp on how to speak with the older inhabitants of this area, honestly. Some like to play it funny, making jokes and acting like they own a mug that says "World's Greatest Grandparents." Then there's the Snowbirds, who slide in that they're from ___(insert any city north of the Mason Dixon Line)___ and how they just love the weather down here. And then there's the snooty locals who don't use their manners at all and wear cardigans everywhere, even the beach. And there's a whole bunch of others, like the Italian New Yorkers, and the small-dog walkers and dedicated happy hour-goers. And then there's the gifts, the gems, like my friend from the ice cream parlor, who talk to anyone and everyone that'll listen and don't give two shits either way because they live on a damn island in the Gulf of Mexico. I'm living amongst the retired, the veterans of life, and I'm 23.
I let a month go by, and looking back on it, I know for a fact I could've done better. Should have done better. I need to work more on this, and also work on using my YMCA membership. I love this work-life balance I'm getting going here. Clearly I'm good at it.
Which reminds me, I forgot to share where I live now. After my recent escapade in Bahrain, which was after working at summer camp in Bemidji, I'm currently playing house in Marco Island, Florida and working at the Naples Botanical Garden. A new step in a relatively similar direction to my original projection of adulthood. I'd say I'm chugging along.
Marco Island is an unique location. The island is less than 60 years old, and it hardly has any citizens under that same age. I'm an anomaly down here, it seems. I'm not retired, I'm single, I'm not a "snowbird," though I sure am related to some future snowbirds, and, oh, and I'm young as all get out. I go to fish fry's at the Resident's Beach and watch local Jimmy Buffet-inspired artists do their thing, I nearly die twice a day on my bike simply because my fellow islander tourists don't realize that crosswalk signs are actually respected on this island, and sometimes I eat ice cream and people watch, as in, I watch people, people don't watch me eating ice cream. It's not that absurd over here.
To truly lay out the case for my predicament, I must share a story. The other day, I finished work relatively early in the afternoon, about 2pm I think. I drove back to the island, did some laundry, and because I ate a late lunch, I wasn't hungry; but not being hungry doesn't justify not getting ice cream. So I got ice cream. At 5pm. On a Tuesday. And as I was enjoying my single scoop Rocky Road, a lady came out of the building a few doors down and made her little old lady shuffle over to her car parked in front of me. As she came closer, I realized she was mid-conversation, and I was unknowingly included in that conversation.
"Oh, it's such a great day to have ice cream. But I'm just not hungry, you know? And nowadays, I can't just eat ice cream whenever. Well I guess I can! Oh, but not today--what's that noise?"
Consider this a rhetorical conversation if there ever was one. Her phone was buzzing in her purse, and she managed to haul it out of her Mary Poppins bag as the last ring went off. She mumbled on about something, standing in front of me, eyes expressively glued to her screen, as I sat in my rod-iron chair in front of Sweet Annie's Ice Cream Parlor, which has the parlor seats and bartop with puzzles and doodahs for sale all over the place and an attached sitting/arcade room, "cleaning up" my ice cream cone, as my mother taught me how to do.
"That was my sister. She called and left me two voicemails. Let's see what they're about."
And as I wiggle out a protruding almond slice from my scoop, giving myself a chocolate lip liner, this lady begins to dictate her voicemails to me. I've finished off about a third of my scoop above the cone line (it's a sugar cone), and she turns to make her way to her car, still talking about her sister, who supposedly is coming down to visit her on the 14th of next month and only likes a certain type of deli meat, and she doesn't have time today to go find out where she can buy it so she can prepare even though she has more than 30 days to prepare.
She luckily already has her keys in her hand, unlocks her door, opens it and smiles at me, and loads up and rips out of there like only people who shouldn't be driving can. I didn't speak a word. I just ate my cone. That was better than TV. I watched her pull out of the parking lot and my brain finally kicked in and I burst out laughing, launching my nose into my cone and then having to nonchalantly rub it off while not looking like the complete idiot I already was.
Had anyone else been there, I'm sure the entire situation would have panned out differently. I don't really have a grasp on how to speak with the older inhabitants of this area, honestly. Some like to play it funny, making jokes and acting like they own a mug that says "World's Greatest Grandparents." Then there's the Snowbirds, who slide in that they're from ___(insert any city north of the Mason Dixon Line)___ and how they just love the weather down here. And then there's the snooty locals who don't use their manners at all and wear cardigans everywhere, even the beach. And there's a whole bunch of others, like the Italian New Yorkers, and the small-dog walkers and dedicated happy hour-goers. And then there's the gifts, the gems, like my friend from the ice cream parlor, who talk to anyone and everyone that'll listen and don't give two shits either way because they live on a damn island in the Gulf of Mexico. I'm living amongst the retired, the veterans of life, and I'm 23.
Nerd
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