The Best Place to Retire

I am having a really hard time deciding the best place to retire, where I want to go to die, because let’s face it, the places where people go to retire are usually the places where they stay until they kick the bucket. When you reach a certain age, like 70 or 80, say, you’re not likely to move around again, unless maybe you’re that poor guy Casey Kasem. I mean, what if I choose the wrong place and I hate it, and I can’t leave? What if there is a better place to choose, and I didn’t go there? My life has not been comprised of permanent decisions.

My girlfriend who works as a professional clown in Austin picked her place to die a long time ago. I reminded her of that over the weekend. She’s not ever moving again, I pointed out. She will die where she lives in Texas. Maybe not right there on her 10 acres of land, but that will be her home when the end comes. I’m sure she probably didn’t think about her last days on earth when she initially bought her home, but that’s how it’s working out for her. She likes living in the country. She’s happy at home, with her garden, pets and a pool to jump into during those hot summer days in Texas.

She’s so lucky.

I, on the other hand, have a really hard time making permanent decisions. For a long time when I was younger, I was dearly frightened of coloring my hair because it was a permanent color solution. If I had known you could strip color and start over, I would have begun coloring my hair much earlier. The word permanent means forever, and I can’t wrap my brain around that notion. Maybe that’s why I’ve been married 5 times.

I like knowing I have options. If something doesn’t work out, I have the power to change it. There are no bad decisions, just detours.

It’s why I don’t sport a tattoo. Other than the fact I am a big wuss when it comes to pain. You want to operate on me in some sort of fashion, you better make sure I am sedated. A cortisone shot in the back? I get put out. Dental work? Sound asleep. Besides, I don’t trust the tattoo guys. I’d wake up to find the state of Alaska tattooed on my back instead of a cute butterfly on my wrist. And I can’t get a butterfly because a seahorse on my ankle might be cuter. I can’t make up my mind. Because it can’t be changed later. No really, there’s always a scar. It’s permanent.

I’ve never had any kids because it’s a permanent commitment. You can’t disown a kid or toss them out into the back yard to fend for themselves. Hey, you guys, go eat some grass. They scream and make a fuss when they are babies, and when they grow up, they move back home. No, thanks. You always have to remember their birthdays, and then they have kids. Their kids have kids. It’s a never-ending cycle, and it all started with you making that decision to have kids. Not me.

But I have no problem telling other people what to do. Nope, see that cliff over there? Jump off. No, don’t pinch your nose or look down, just run and leap. OK, one less person on the earth to worry about. And more time for me to spend wondering where in the world I want to go to die and why I can’t seem to face that choice. The best thing to do is not think about it and continue selling real estate in Sacramento. I have a long ways to go yet.