The last time I called my retirement savings a Poor01(k), years ago when I was still green to the workforce, it was more a reference to how little I was contributing to my future. These days, I’m fully committed to it, faithfully allotting chunks of my paycheck to financial wizards who are toiling daily to maximize my return. I picture a gaggle of fund managers at Fidelity gathered around an oak table in a mahogany-lined room, poring over every line item I chose, engaged in spirited debate on how best to ensure the health of my portfolio.
It’s a Poor01(k) in the truest sense now, with an annual ROI of -30% and sinking, and obviously I’ve traded the mahogany idealism for something a little more realistic: floors of fluorescent-hued cubicle farms packed with wretched people who probably know little more about the current market than I do, yet are tasked with hitting the “oh holy shit” button on their keyboards rapidly. To a certain extent it’s not their fault, but the fact remains that what I once regarded as a portfolio now resembles a Trapper Keeper in the mud, floating facedown with covers splayed open, loose pages every which where.
Conventional wisdom recommends you put, bare minimum, the amount your company will match into your 401(k). It also says that age can weather market fluctuations. History will dictate whether this advice is correct. When you’re in the thick of it, though, it feels like you’re setting your money ablaze, and the employer matching program is no more helpful than the dude walking by who pours gasoline into the bonfire.
When I stepped off the train into a gorgeous Saturday afternoon that was–wait for it–pretty much as I imagined, the cogs began turning, bringing to fore a few things I immediately wanted to accomplish. First, I needed to avoid the wide-eyed touristy look, a tell-tale bearing traditionally accompanied by a hip pack and liberally swinging camera. Owning neither fortunately freed me to focus on the cardinal identifier of out-of-towners: the constant urge to look up. And it was a challenge, let me tell you. I found myself gazing up at the skyscrapers more than a few times.
The next order of business was to parse out the main roads, a goal easily met with the detailed maps, which listed the county jail as an attraction, generously sticking out of every other street corner. The final task was to calculate the Hobo Quotient, here defined as the maximum distance you may travel from city’s center before encountering lippy hobos. An equation, if I may:
Hobo Quotient = (# words slurred)/(distance in blocks)
Calculating the HQ allows you to determine how far you may wander before straying into the more unsavory parts of town. I was doing fine, a few blocks deep on South Tryon, when a bum with a cell phone (and charger) in hand was indignant because I wouldn’t lend him mine. I had to lie, citing rapidly depleting battery power as an excuse, because my compassion for humanity is only slightly outweighed by my aversion to hobo leavings on my keypad.
Well, lesson learned and boundaries set, I guess. Uptown absolutely pulsed with the potential to be a big city. You could feel it–the promise of being a destination, rather than a place where high-rises happened to be, with every new construction built. But I also realized I’ve lived near cities before–New York, Chicago–and it’s the idea of urban life that appeals far more than actually living it.
Last Friday, when the rain pattered down on stubbornly dry gas stations, the line between schadenfreude–perhaps the only German word I’ve retained–and justice blurred as a Hummer H2 sat dead but 30 feet from the pumps, nudged against the curb, its owner tipping a red can into the beast to revive it. The spectacle was the highlight of my lunch hour. That’s a terrible thing to say, I know, but I’m no saint, and my irrational distaste for the H2 has never waned. It’s a piece of automotive excess that moves at the speed of gauche. A tackyon, for you physicists out there. I’ll be here all night.
The temperature, humidity, and atmospheric pressure are all in accordance this weekend for a trip downtown. It’s been a long time coming, and the monorail sure isn’t getting any newer. It just feels like I need to get out there and give it another chance, you know? This will be the third ever weekend trek to the city. The previous two trips were met with a ghost town of a panorama, but I’ve been told this was my fault for rolling down the streets at 10 AM on a Saturday morning.
Afternoon it is, then. The tendency for me is to envision an experience before it even happens, which I imagine can be detrimental. The moment I decided to go, I could feel the breeze, hear the sidewalk connect with my shoe bottoms, and exhale that satisfied post-trip sigh. And then the spread immediately came to mind: best-case, a return trip. Worst-case, someone in the parking garage would figure out my gas cap doesn’t lock and siphon the tank. Closest station would be the Texaco, where I’d grab a plastic container and fuel.
You see where this is going. I want a clean slate this weekend. No preconceptions. No prior judgments. Make sure the jury’s still out. No verdict until after. But even as I write this, I realize the gavel may have already gone crack.