Forget Your Umbrella
About two weeks ago I got a call from Sam Elder. According to his message, he was my financial advisor. I didn't even know I had one! Not entirely trusting the call, I decided not to return his message. But a few days later, he caught me in the bathroom at work while I was changing out of my uniform. Would I like to come in for a consultation, he asked. He worked for First Command, a company I'd held mutual funds with for 20 years, so I decided to go ahead and meet the guy. "Sure," I said.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when I made my way to his downtown office on Cathedral Street. A "First Command" sign hung from the side of the building like a marker for a colonial tavern. The old brick building was square and conservative, and the office door was simply one of many. The inside, however, was entirely the opposite: marble flooring, glass separaters, brass light fixtures. I even had to wait to be buzzed in. Andrea, the secretary, offered me a drink, but I declined. Instead I waited in the plush red chairs and looked over paperwork for a Roth IRA.
Soon Sam came out to collect me, and I found myself shaking hands with a short, squat middle-aged man with a graying beard and a red tie, kerchief to match. He was smiling and lively.
"Did Andrea offer you a soda?" he asked.
"Oh yes, I'm fine."
"Well great, then let's head back to my office."
His office was past rooms and rooms of CPAs and brokers and auditors. Inside, the back was painted dark blue. A chair waited for me with a few pieces of paper ("First Command" letterhead and all), Sam's business card, and a pen. To my right was a computer screen showing my account. "AFC-Kathleen Brasington," it read.
"Have a seat," Sam said, settling into his office chair. He asked me where I had gone to school, what I was doing in Annapolis, what my aspirations were. The conversation flowed easily until the last question.
"I had plans to go into recreation, but being away from it and working in restaurants, I'm not so sure anymore."
"What other career paths did you have in mind?" he asked, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his knee.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm happy where I am right now, though I don't want to be here serving tables forever. I've never really seen myself in a life-long career. Maybe 10 years max, but that's it."
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. "No? Hmm. That's an interesting problem.
A problem? I'd never really thought of it that way. Just a different mode of being. I shrugged my shoulders.
Sam dug into his desk and pulled out a large piece of paper. On the top in colorful lettering was written, "Road May to Financial Success." The large cartoon road was broken up by "Financial Milestones": blank blue boxes where I could write in my dreams and goals.
"Most of the people I see here write in 'Buy a house' or 'Put kids through college,' but you're a different case. I want you to think of something you want: to buy or do or have. Something that will cost a bit of money, something you have to save for. Be creative! Think outside the box."
I found that slightly ironic. The first one I wrote in said, "Month-long trip to Europe."
"Ok, that's a good one! Now let's talk specifics. When are you going?"
I felt myself getting annoyed. This was a hypothetical, a half-baked idea. It wasn't something I was ready, or WANTING, to set in stone.
"I don't know, in about two years?"
"Two years from today? Let's see, that's May 5, 2011." He wrote the date in the blue box. I knew what he was getting at- that if you wanted your dreams to pan out, you had to get specific about them. But I wasn't in the mood.
"Now let's see how much this'll cost." He started looking up EuroRail pass prices, had me guesstimate my food costs per diem, hosetl prices per noctem, other miscellaneous fees. The final score we came up with was $3,225. He jotted it in the box next to "May 5, 2011." He passed the Road Map across the desk to me.
"Good. How about another one?"
I didn't like having to think about this. I worked, I made money. I put it in the bank, I spent it on food and rent and bills, I used it for gifts and friends and events. Money was just something I needed to live. Like oxygen, I never really thought about it. I'd never suffocated or drowned- thought I'd never breathe again. I breathed in, I cashed out. All part of living day to day.
I came up with one more for Sam: cut a demo CD. He apparently had had some dealings in the music bix in his day, so he guessed about $1000 on cost. When? "Oh, let's say Fall 2009." He wanted me to be more precise. "October 1, 2009." "Great."
But after that one, I was dry. I felt the face of my high school guidance counselor frowning on me. "What do you want to DO with your life?" was the constant question. GIve years out, it was still the same. "What do you want to DO with your life?"
Didn't my college degree say enough? I wasn't still living with my parents. I had moved out of my home town. I payed all my bills on time. I had no debts. What was the problem? Was it such an issue that I couldn't imagine my life in 5 years? 10 years? Whatever happened to "Carpe Diem!" "Live in the moment," or "One step at a time"?
I look at my co-workers, people who have worked in the restaurant industry for years- as servers, bartenders, managers, owners. They have happy lives, comfortable places to live, friends and family who love them. Sure, some of their cars need a new coat of paint and they pay their own dental fees, but they make more than enough to make ends meet, spending the excess on another round for the crew.
The other patrons in the bar, they work 9-5 jobs. Jobs that define them: politician, doctor, accountant, construction manager. At cocktail parties they talk about their latest projects, a funny story someone told them at the water cooler. They don't work to live, they live to work. Somewhere along the line, I think we mixed this up, confusing joy with a job. From a young age I was asked to imagine myself all grown up and smiling, wearing some kind of uniform: a nurse's scrubs, a firefighter's boots, a lawyer's suit. I pictured myself as a pilot, darting between the clouds as easily as Peter Pan. That's happiness, was the message; work is happiness. No one pictures an apron and a tie.
That's the myth of civilization- that specialization is the best way. Nay, the ONLY way. We're shopkeepers and carpenters and blacksmiths instead of PEOPLE.
But here I was having the financial advisor I never knew I had asking me what KIND of person I saw myself as in the next decade. Still.
Crazy as it seems to people like Sam, I'm content not knowing. Life happens. Ten years from now I'll look back on this moment and laugh and sigh at the person I was. I'll look ahead ten years and still see darkness. My eyes will adjust with each step forward, and my surroundings will come into view, and life goes on.
Sam guided me through the well-lit hallway of the First Command office. "I'll walk out with you and finish chatting so you won't be late for class," he said, refolding the Road Map and putting it into my file. Did he say "class" or "work"?
It was raining harder than when I'd arrived. I hadn't needed an umbrella then, so I hadn't brought one. Now it seemed that I'd be getting wet.
"See you in about two weeks!" Sam called from the stoop, waving goodbye.
We were going to follow up on my... aspirations.I smiled and waved back. With a quick turn and a skip, I hurried down the road in the spring rain, laughing as it came down on my shoulders. I'd make it right on time, and it wouldn't matter that I was wet.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when I made my way to his downtown office on Cathedral Street. A "First Command" sign hung from the side of the building like a marker for a colonial tavern. The old brick building was square and conservative, and the office door was simply one of many. The inside, however, was entirely the opposite: marble flooring, glass separaters, brass light fixtures. I even had to wait to be buzzed in. Andrea, the secretary, offered me a drink, but I declined. Instead I waited in the plush red chairs and looked over paperwork for a Roth IRA.
Soon Sam came out to collect me, and I found myself shaking hands with a short, squat middle-aged man with a graying beard and a red tie, kerchief to match. He was smiling and lively.
"Did Andrea offer you a soda?" he asked.
"Oh yes, I'm fine."
"Well great, then let's head back to my office."
His office was past rooms and rooms of CPAs and brokers and auditors. Inside, the back was painted dark blue. A chair waited for me with a few pieces of paper ("First Command" letterhead and all), Sam's business card, and a pen. To my right was a computer screen showing my account. "AFC-Kathleen Brasington," it read.
"Have a seat," Sam said, settling into his office chair. He asked me where I had gone to school, what I was doing in Annapolis, what my aspirations were. The conversation flowed easily until the last question.
"I had plans to go into recreation, but being away from it and working in restaurants, I'm not so sure anymore."
"What other career paths did you have in mind?" he asked, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his knee.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm happy where I am right now, though I don't want to be here serving tables forever. I've never really seen myself in a life-long career. Maybe 10 years max, but that's it."
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. "No? Hmm. That's an interesting problem.
A problem? I'd never really thought of it that way. Just a different mode of being. I shrugged my shoulders.
Sam dug into his desk and pulled out a large piece of paper. On the top in colorful lettering was written, "Road May to Financial Success." The large cartoon road was broken up by "Financial Milestones": blank blue boxes where I could write in my dreams and goals.
"Most of the people I see here write in 'Buy a house' or 'Put kids through college,' but you're a different case. I want you to think of something you want: to buy or do or have. Something that will cost a bit of money, something you have to save for. Be creative! Think outside the box."
I found that slightly ironic. The first one I wrote in said, "Month-long trip to Europe."
"Ok, that's a good one! Now let's talk specifics. When are you going?"
I felt myself getting annoyed. This was a hypothetical, a half-baked idea. It wasn't something I was ready, or WANTING, to set in stone.
"I don't know, in about two years?"
"Two years from today? Let's see, that's May 5, 2011." He wrote the date in the blue box. I knew what he was getting at- that if you wanted your dreams to pan out, you had to get specific about them. But I wasn't in the mood.
"Now let's see how much this'll cost." He started looking up EuroRail pass prices, had me guesstimate my food costs per diem, hosetl prices per noctem, other miscellaneous fees. The final score we came up with was $3,225. He jotted it in the box next to "May 5, 2011." He passed the Road Map across the desk to me.
"Good. How about another one?"
I didn't like having to think about this. I worked, I made money. I put it in the bank, I spent it on food and rent and bills, I used it for gifts and friends and events. Money was just something I needed to live. Like oxygen, I never really thought about it. I'd never suffocated or drowned- thought I'd never breathe again. I breathed in, I cashed out. All part of living day to day.
I came up with one more for Sam: cut a demo CD. He apparently had had some dealings in the music bix in his day, so he guessed about $1000 on cost. When? "Oh, let's say Fall 2009." He wanted me to be more precise. "October 1, 2009." "Great."
But after that one, I was dry. I felt the face of my high school guidance counselor frowning on me. "What do you want to DO with your life?" was the constant question. GIve years out, it was still the same. "What do you want to DO with your life?"
Didn't my college degree say enough? I wasn't still living with my parents. I had moved out of my home town. I payed all my bills on time. I had no debts. What was the problem? Was it such an issue that I couldn't imagine my life in 5 years? 10 years? Whatever happened to "Carpe Diem!" "Live in the moment," or "One step at a time"?
I look at my co-workers, people who have worked in the restaurant industry for years- as servers, bartenders, managers, owners. They have happy lives, comfortable places to live, friends and family who love them. Sure, some of their cars need a new coat of paint and they pay their own dental fees, but they make more than enough to make ends meet, spending the excess on another round for the crew.
The other patrons in the bar, they work 9-5 jobs. Jobs that define them: politician, doctor, accountant, construction manager. At cocktail parties they talk about their latest projects, a funny story someone told them at the water cooler. They don't work to live, they live to work. Somewhere along the line, I think we mixed this up, confusing joy with a job. From a young age I was asked to imagine myself all grown up and smiling, wearing some kind of uniform: a nurse's scrubs, a firefighter's boots, a lawyer's suit. I pictured myself as a pilot, darting between the clouds as easily as Peter Pan. That's happiness, was the message; work is happiness. No one pictures an apron and a tie.
That's the myth of civilization- that specialization is the best way. Nay, the ONLY way. We're shopkeepers and carpenters and blacksmiths instead of PEOPLE.
But here I was having the financial advisor I never knew I had asking me what KIND of person I saw myself as in the next decade. Still.
Crazy as it seems to people like Sam, I'm content not knowing. Life happens. Ten years from now I'll look back on this moment and laugh and sigh at the person I was. I'll look ahead ten years and still see darkness. My eyes will adjust with each step forward, and my surroundings will come into view, and life goes on.
Sam guided me through the well-lit hallway of the First Command office. "I'll walk out with you and finish chatting so you won't be late for class," he said, refolding the Road Map and putting it into my file. Did he say "class" or "work"?
It was raining harder than when I'd arrived. I hadn't needed an umbrella then, so I hadn't brought one. Now it seemed that I'd be getting wet.
"See you in about two weeks!" Sam called from the stoop, waving goodbye.
We were going to follow up on my... aspirations.I smiled and waved back. With a quick turn and a skip, I hurried down the road in the spring rain, laughing as it came down on my shoulders. I'd make it right on time, and it wouldn't matter that I was wet.