This morning, I saw a young man driving a truck. Something about his appearance or expression reminded me of myself as a young man. He had a scruffy beard and was wearing a plain jacket. He looked at me and we locked eyes for a moment. He looked dispirited and unhappy.
When I was a small child, I was riding in a car with my grandfather, father, and brother. The topic of conversation was what you would want to be when you grew up. As I recall, my grandfather said he wanted to be an eccentric millionaire. My father said he wanted to be a young man of independent means. I didn’t really understand what that meant, as a child. But it made a big impression on my brother. (I remember being more inclined, like my grandfather, to be an eccentric millionaire).
As I thought about the young man in the truck, I reflected on my own youth.
I was not particularly happy. Those were not “the best years of my life.” I had poor judgment. I did foolish things. And I suffered for it.
I never felt very attractive. I was short and pudgy. I self-conscious and overcompensated, trying to appear happy, funny, and clever.
I was not athletic in my youth either. My efforts to play team sports were not rewarded with either success or encouragement. I did have periods of time when I did some individual sports: running, weight lifting, and cycling. Being more fit however, did not — as far I could ever tell — make me more attractive. One hundred times zero is still zero.
If I had been “of independent means” I don’t think I would have been any happier. I would have still been foolish and had poor judgment. And if people had been attracted to me because of my wealth, well… That sounds like it would have been potentially disastrous.
As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve come to value such wisdom as comes with age. As a retiree, my means appear adequate to my needs. I can now look back at my squandered youth with equanimity. I can accept the physical limitations that come with age having few or no regrets.
This isn’t to say I don’t still do foolish things. Or make mistakes. But I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own skin, warts and all.
Would I want to be a young man of independent means? No, thank you. I would still rather be an eccentric millionaire.
