Approaching the deadline

May 1 is less than a week away. In case you've forgotten, or haven't kept up regularly with every inane posting on this blog, May 1 is the deadline I set for the Universe to get me a vehicular upgrade. I've tried very hard to keep up the positive thinking in order to attract what I want. Maybe the Universe was waiting for me to make a firm decision on the type of vehicle I want, since for a little while there I was flip-flopping between a Ford Expedition EL and a Toyota Sequoia, and even considered a late-model Grand Marquis. My mind is made up, now, and I will go with a black Sequoia. It's made better and holds value better, plus it's better suited for the classy but incognito look I try to maintain (see my entry, In Praise of Averageness). I really want a 2008 or newer model, with the latest body style, but I'm getting to where I'll settle for an older one if it lets me ditch the Ford. It's gotta be black, though, even if I find a good deal and have to have it painted. I've decided I want the second row captain's chairs with the console, so that rear passengers can travel in greater comfort. Yes, Universe, I am ready for my Sequoia! Show me the money!

I realized something this afternoon which I consider a profound observation. I was lounging on the couch at home, enjoying an extended lunch break since my boss left before I did, and glanced at a collage of photos on the living room wall. They were all of fun times and happy memories my wife and I shared together or with friends and relatives, taking during birthday parties, vacations, weekend jaunts, and family gatherings. That's when I realized something I'd never really noticed before: in all the homes I've visited, among all the personal photos adorning walls and tabletops, I can't recall a single framed photo that was shot in someone's workplace. The moments in time we all choose to capture on a 4 by 6-inch sheet of glossy paper and display under glass have absolutely nothing to do with what we do to scrape out a living 40 hours a week. That's how little we wish to be reminded of the hours we don't get to spend doing what makes us happy, with the people we love. Sure, we may have fun at work, joking around with colleagues and maybe even doing projects we find somewhat interesting, but we still don't really want to be there. We do it for the money, so that we can pay to have dinner or drinks with the people in those pictures on the living room wall. A change of vehicle would definitely make me more content with my world, but it won't make me completely happy. No, that can only be accomplished with a ticket out of the daily grind. I'm so ready to quit this fucking dead-end job so unworthy of being immortalized in photographs, and live every day like it were a Saturday. I love my weekends. Even this past holiday weekend when I was sitting through an endless round of Stabat Mater during a 2-hour Good Friday church service, I thought to myself, at least I'm not at work. It's the best job I could ask for, as far as jobs go, except for the shitty pay, but I'm absolutely ready to drop the fucking plow in the field without any hesitation. No two weeks notice, no wrapping up projects. As soon as that lotto jackpot is in my bank account, I'm packing up my scant few belongings in my cubicle, leaving my keycard on my desk, and walking out the back door without speaking a word to anyone. Fuck this place, man. I am not spending another fine summer rotting away in this office when I should be lounging at the beach or gorging at the buffet on a cruise ship. If God exists, He will provide me with the means to ditch the rat race by the end of May of this year.