This past Christmas, the in-laws graciously gave me a t-shirt that had a street-sign-esque drawing of a dude playing video games with the words “living the dream” emblazoned below it. I walked away from the tree thinking they bought it as an ironic joke. Nobody really believes that I spend my days paying video games and drinking Mountain Dew. Do they? If they think I’m living the dream, surely they know nothing could be further from the truth. Or is it?
My lovely wife pointed out that it might not have been intended as an ironic gift. After all, I did ask for about five different video games on my Christmas list. Perhaps my list made it it look like I’m some sort of hardcore gamer. Well, regardless of whether it was intentionally ironic or not, at some point, I started to wear my fun, new ironic t-shirt… ironically.
But the more I started wearing it, the more I started thinking that maybe I really am living the dream. Not the Xbox and Mountain Dew dream. And not the vaunted “American Dream.” Speaking of which, why is it a dream to work 60+ hours a week and commute another 15 only to be too tired to celebrate life when you get home? And why is it a dream to spend your days fantasizing about a vacation about which your employers will give you a hard time when you try to take it?
I make my money as a freelance advertising copywriter serving clients in Atlanta and as far away as Charlotte. These days, my commute is little more than a short walk upstairs. My lunch is whenever I want and however long I want. I don’t have to ask anyone if it’s OK for me to leave early to run an errand. And I don’t have to justify my existence on the payroll only to be laid off in the name of cost-cutting. I am, for lack of a better term, my own boss.
Of course, that means I’m also, for lack of a better term, my own employee. The fact is that if I want to sit around and play video games all day, I can. I’ll simply have to pay for it by working twice as hard tomorrow. (I’ll also have to pay for it a little bit when the wife gets home to a dirty house). My path has led me to this, and I’ve grown to accept that I will never live in a mansion. I will never be able to afford the finer things in life. And when I retire, I will do so modestly.
Now, with that said, it should be noted that I sit writing this on the front porch of my hotel overlooking a quaint street in Stellenbosch, South Africa. I had to ask no one if it was OK for me to take the week off. I had to do absolutely no calculations as to whether I had enough vacation days available to make the trip. I have the freedom to enjoy my time on this earth as I see fit.
So, perhaps my shirt isn’t so ironic after all.