LADIES! If you’ve got a burning dating question that can only be answered by a dude, I’ve just started writing for gURL.com as their resident male dating expert in a column called “Ask A Guy.” I’m like a Dr. Phil for the Millennial Generation. With more hair. And less dickishness.
Check out my first entry, in which I explain how to tell if your male friend likes you:
gURL.com: “Ask A Guy” with Ethan Fixell
For ALL of my gURL advice, click below!
In therapy once (you didn’t think I figured all this shit out on my own, did you?), I told my doctor about an incident which brought me great anxiety: I had accidentally left the house that morning without the banana I had intended to eat for breakfast. And although I faced three potentially sluggish hours at work until lunch, I had no plans of purchasing a replacement at the conveniently located fruit stand in front of my office building. Having just invested in a whole bushel of bananas at the grocery store, how could I justify buying yet another when it was my fault for forgetting one of the many I’d already purchased?
My shrink pointed out that I have a tendency to punish myself for even the smallest, most honest mistakes, and need to be less hard on myself. Refusing to buy a new banana doesn’t prove anything; it only hinders your energy level—and therefore, productivity—even further. Spending a quarter on a new banana is actually the most rational course of action one could possibly take.
I thought this analysis was brilliant, and proudly declared that upon leaving the session, I would acquire a new banana. Anxiety, I realized, could be swiftly dispelled simply by defying my obsessive instincts — by forcing myself to do that which makes me so irrationally uncomfortable. I chuckled at how obvious the solution was: “Just buy the banana!” A new man, I practically skipped my way to the fruit stand with a smile from ear to ear. Triumphant movie music played in my head, as if I were the hero of a John Hughes movie, crowned Prom King at last despite a crippling stutter and lack of fashion sense. I had prevailed.
At the fruit stand, I picked up the largest, freshest banana I could find, and raised it like a trophy. “One banana, please,” I proclaimed defiantly to the man at the cart. Here I was, daring to step outside my comfort zone; discovering things about myself which I had previously refused to believe. What progress I had made!
Mechanically, the fruit vendor extended his hand, palm-up. “Fifty cents.”
I stood there, paralyzed. Motionless. Struggling to gather the words that were failing me at the moment, but nothing was coming.
“What?” I eventually managed to stammer.
“Fifty cents,” he repeated emphatically.
I stared at him blankly, silently. At last, I leaked an incredulous laugh.
“You want 50 cents…for one banana?! Fuck that.”
And I hauled my cheap ass up to the office to drink free coffee instead.
On CBS Sunday Morning a few months ago, financial guru and shoulder pad model Suze Orman gave one of her classic lectures to the desperate American public:
“Many of us are gonna spend more years in retirement than we ever did working. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’re gonna retire when you are 59, 62…Chances are, you are not. Perfect retirement age is 67. If you can postpone til 70, that’s even better. If you can wait and take social security to those ages as well, that’s great .”
She loaded her pointer fingers and fired with emphatic pauses:
“Don’t. retire. before. your time.”
Sure, her advice was sound. But what I want to know is: who are these people who want to retire at the age of 59? It blows my mind that anyone would stick with a career they dread so much that they actually look forwardto the day they can afford to quit. What’s the point of living to retirement age if you’re absolutely miserable for a third of your waking hours until then?
I’ll be the first to admit I’m supremely lucky. I came from a great family, got a great education, and had enough financial and emotional support in order to follow my dreams. And I recognize that with a widening socioeconomic gap and a rapidly disappearing middle class, the average American can’t focus on becoming the first white reggaeton artist when he’s having a hard enough time just trying to feed himself. But simultaneously, an epidemic of laziness is plaguing a new caste of “discontented non-destitute,” and it needs to be addressed.
Perhaps class priorities were best summarized by comedians Marc Maron and Demetri Martin in a recent episode of Maron’s stellar podcast, WTF (I’m paraphrasing here):
Laborers want their children to be merchants. Merchants want their kids to be professionals. Professionals, academics. Academics, artists. Artists don’t care what their kids become. And rich people just don’t want their kids to kill themselves.
So yes, I’m addressing the rich kids – but more accurately, I’m addressing anyone who has the opportunity to choose his or her own career.
Work is work – it will never be all roses. There will be days when you’d rather curl up in the bathtub with a bottle of merlot and bathe in your own tears than clock in. But work should be fulfilling in its own right, with even the most challenging of days eventually providing a sense of accomplishment, a boost of confidence, or a bit of newfound wisdom. Whether you’re passionate about achieving specific goals, or have no idea what you want to do with your life, anyone with the financial wiggle-room to take risks or experiment has the responsibility to do so. Not only do you owe it to yourself to reach for fulfillment, but to abstain is an insult to those who don’t have the same freedom.
Furthermore, if you are someone still unsure about your intended path in life; if you’ve bounced from career to career but have yet to find that dream job; if you’ve finally settled into a boring, uninspiring position which pays well enough, but elicits a level of enthusiasm ranging from “very little” to “Darfurian” – why wouldn’t you spend every spare moment searching for an alternative to the mind-numbing sadness that is your day job?
And let’s not forget that average lifespan in the U.S. is now 79 years. If you retire at 59, what the hell are you doing for the next twenty? TV, golf, and freestyle farting all get old, my friends. My Dad turned 59 this year, and he wouldn’t dream of retiring from financial consulting yet. I’d probably prefer coal mining over following in his footsteps, but I assure you that he looks forward to returning to work every Sunday night. My Grandfather was also a financial consultant (sorry to break tradition guys, but at least we know low-hanging testicles will be in the family for years to come), and only retired this year at the age of 86. Like my father, he loved his job.
Some say they can’t be defined by work, and that they live for family or leisure. Obviously I can’t contest what makes someone happy, but if a person maintaining that point of view is also employed, they should at least find their work pleasant. Being ready for retirement when the time comes isn’t the same as starting the countdown at age 40 with a gun under the mattress as insurance.
I also realize that I’ve been flippantly generalizing about the lives of millions of unique individuals with complex, exclusive situations. This isn’t a PhD dissertation or a call for revolution: I’m just asking people to give a fuck. If not about the world, then at least about yourself. For those of you stable enough, agile enough, brave enough to push yourselves…do it! Because if you’re not happy at work, I won’t be happy when your miserable, bitter ass cuts me in line at Pinkberry.
