What I want

Another March Break will come and go without a stamp in my passport, or a tan line on my pasty white limbs. This makes me cranky. I didn’t save up the money for a vacation. Again.

I’ve never really had the right attitude about money or savings. I blame The Flying Lizards. Remember them? The new wave band had a hit song with the addictive remake of Money (That’s What I Want) back in 1979.

My brother owned a 45 of this song and played it a lot. I was a child infected by this earworm that still inhabits my brain today.  To summarize, the gist of the chorus is this: “I want money. That’s what I want.” Selfish lyrics. Bad message. How could I not love it?

Money does not buy happiness. Morally, I know this to be true. Money can’t buy love (but it can buy me a pony and I would love a pony and it would love me back, so there). Money cannot buy you peace of mind. It can, however, buy you trips to yoga retreats in exotic destinations, where the whole point is to do that very thing.

So, if all this is true, I have concluded that money buys you the right to be miserable and let me tell you, I would be happy to be miserable if I could afford it.

Had I the abundance of money to be miserable right now, I’d be stewing in my lousy attitude from the comfort of a cabana lounge on a private beach in Barbados, with a rum punch delivered to me by a handsome young man named Enrique (Spanish, it’s my fantasy, don’t judge). His job would be to manage my misery by multi-tasking between applying my sun tan lotion, fetching more rum and taking numerous calls from celebrities (rock musicians and serious actors only – Enrique is under strict orders not to return calls from Kardashians), all of whom want to come over for dinner, because misery loves company and I’m taking reservations.

Oh, you know I’m kidding.

I am as happy as a clam in deep water eking out an existence from pay cheque to pay cheque in merriment and bliss from my unfinished and debt-ridden house in the frozen heart of Wellington County.

All the sun of Barbados can never offer the burn of the windshield temperature of home in March. No sir. Happiness is right here. Besides, I don’t speak Spanish and may accidentally suggest something inappropriate to Enrique (read: innocent).

Honestly, who needs money for vacations? Or a cabana boy? Or rum punch? Oh, never mind. Put The Flying Lizards on the turntable.

The best things in life are still free and money cannot buy you the free stuff. That makes no sense.

See? I need a vacation. And Spanish lessons, just in case.



Kelly Waterhouse