The good news: I finally figured out what I want to do with my life.
The bad news: There’s no way I can do it.
My epiphany came last week, when Spirit made her annual visit to the library. I had to wait patiently for hordes of little kids to get their picture taken with her, but finally it was my turn, and during my few minutes trading kisses and hugs with her, I had my Eureka moment:
I want to be a llama farmer.
Or, okay, let’s expand that a little bit: I want to be farmer of organic vegetables who keeps llamas and other animals, including goats, chickens, and pigs.
As I was falling asleep that night after meeting Spirit, I started crafting an elaborate fantasy. I would somehow convince the bank to loan me lots of money, and then I would buy the land and the animals and the equipment, and I would grow my own food. I would raise enough extra to be able to have a little bit of cash, but I wouldn’t need that much, since I don’t have children and I rarely buy clothes and probably I could go without health insurance for a few years.
And then my fantasy came to a huge grinding halt when I realized I’d have a mortgage to pay. The rest of the bills can be whittled down, but there’s just no getting around housing. You’ve got two choices: you can pay rent, you can make house payments.
I guess there are a few other options—you can live in a prison if you’ve been convicted of a serious crime, or you can live in a convent if you’re a nun, or you can be homeless when it comes right down to it—but for various reasons, none of those options appeal to me.
But a life without llamas no longer appeals to me. They’re actually reasonably inexpensive, $2k for the pricier models, so I could conceivably save up and buy one. Or I could save up money to buy two, and conceivably I would have many llamas. (“Conceivably,” get it?)
Meanwhile, if some sweet old farmer on his deathbed is looking for someone to whom to bequeath his acres of land, I’ve got a candidate in mind.