You have your own rules. You, too, were a real self-starter. You still are except you spread your knowledge like it’s peanut butter – a little more tricky to spread than you anticipate and when it catches the bread, creates rips, and you think, “This is my mark and me leaving it.”
You have goals, most achieved, ticked, graded. You never found a woman you wanted enough to not move for a minimum salary job. You didn’t meet a man either, and you look periodically, but adverts don’t catch your attention like they used to. Once you were an easy sell with disposal income. Now, prices inflate but your wage is basically the same as it was ten years ago so luxuries are few. Mars bars. Cinema tickets. Sometimes you wish you’d kept your church service up so that verses might’ve been your mantra. You’d be really into tithing and you’d be living on the street.
You don’t think he’s wrong any more than you might be. You allow for margins of error, understand nothing’s made to last, make lists of questions when you’re meant to be working:
1. Did we meet already?
2. Should we get a coffee?
3. What will you do when I’m dead?