I don't think I could do it all again, and that realisation came after watching 1500 young people arrive as a human tsunami at our camping ground at a southern Queensland dam and leave after one full day just as dramatically. They came as young families in caravans, camper trailers and tents seeking a weekend of relief from their existence in Brisbane, so many so suddenly that my wife and I gave up waving at new neighbours.
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They didn't want to know us anyway, and I don't think they saw us until we wheeled our little boat to the boat ramp, the tiniest boat they'd ever seen if swivelling heads is a fair indication. Our little boat was the light relief in a sea of spectacularly fast speedboats, swerving jet skis, and wakeboard boats that seemed to carry more than a busload of people.
We watched them over the weekend trying frantically to extract as much from their weekend, almost all of them families with young children, and it was exhausting. Watching them, that is. Parents who were obviously fatigued rising wearily from their chair every few minutes to sort fighting children or chase wandering toddlers, dragging themselves laden with bags to and from the water's edge, cooking on canister stoves, erecting tents, blowing up air mattresses again.
They arrived on late Friday or early Saturday, setting up over a few hours and packing up wearily on Sunday morning, and there seemed to be precious little time between the setting up and packing up. I felt so sorry for them. I mean, if that was a break from the drudgery, the drudgery must be more than miserable.
Who could envy young people their youth?
As they drove off, exhausted, I felt their dread of going back to work, both of them in this day of super mortgages, and I reminded myself again that old age isn't half as bad as it's cracked up to be.
As they drove off, exhausted, I felt their dread of going back to work, both of them in this day of super mortgages, and I reminded myself again that old age isn't half as bad as it's cracked up to be. There's no Mondayitis, for starters, and while we miss out on the rush of Fridays we have instead a tingle of anticipation every day.
There's no Mondayitis, for starters, and while we miss out on the rush of Fridays we have instead a tingle of anticipation every day. At some point our memories of work and its oppression of our life seem to be those of someone else's life.
We don't have a mortgage, and probably not any debt, because the banks won't lend to us, and even our credit cards are paid out monthly. That's because we live in fear of debt, of men in three-piece suits coming to take us away.
Years ago I was looking to buy as an investment a small block of flats in which, the real estate agent told me, every tenant was an age pensioner. Is that, I asked him dubiously, a good thing? Oh yes, he said, they all pay their rent on the knocker because they're all terrified of being evicted. I didn't want to be the source of terror, and I didn't buy.
But being frightened of debt is a good thing.
A bonus is that we live within our means, because we don't have an option of not. Our income is what it is, full stop, and the fact is that in real terms it will never increase. Not for us the question of whether we can afford the repayments on a sleek new car or 10 days in a resort, a blessing if ever there was one.
You won't find us driving cars we cannot afford, and for us the only value in a car is in the car itself, which is why our cars are much cheaper. We don't buy status, because we are no longer in that rat race.
And so there is no more keeping up. We don't care if you're going to the snow, if you have installed a home theatre, or bought a couple of hooting jet skis. We don't give a fig if your hairdresser is a rung or two above ours, if you have a weekly cleaner, if you've just installed ducted air con.
We're oblivious, a gift of age.
Bar the few clinging desperately to a delusion of youth, we buy clothes for function, not fashion, which allows us to wear them till they wear out. Price trumps brand every time. We don't have to be nice to the boss. We don't have to attend work shows, or regret that attendance the next day. We don't have to choose a faction in the politics of the office.
And we are compliant, one of the greatest benefits of age. We stop at Stop signs, we drive at just below the speed limit lest we drift over, we worry about the rules of roundabouts, we look up the latest fishing bag limits, check if there is a total fire ban, and we won't park in even a Parents With Prams parking space, not even if we're busting.
We are no longer beset by choices. Will we move jobs, house, schools, city? We are staying put, and even our domestic relationship has survived its uncertainties. And the age of the tattoo arrived too late for us. Damn!
Addictions are not a problem. Those we have still we can afford, and if they were going to kill us they would have already. We have too much sense and too little money to dabble in a new addiction, and more pills are the very last thing we want.
Best of all, we no longer need worry about growing old.
Jeff Corbett contributes regular columns to the Newcastle Herald. Contact the writer: jeffcorb@gmail.com
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