Nine days into a period of unemployment which I intend to make last somewhere between 6 months and 30 years, I’m finding the adjustment to a less stressful lifestyle quite delicious. My stock answer for the inevitable question of “What are you going to do now?” is “I’m gonna be a hobo.”
Yeah, the fucking pedants have been pointing out that my new indolent life differs somewhat from that traditionally associated with hobos. They don’t understand that I am, in fact, a post-modern hobo. Sure, a hobo is defined as “an itinerant worker.” They do lots of distasteful things: hop freight cars, eat beans outta the can and sleep under overpasses, all in their unceasing efforts to find honest work. My brother claims this contrasts rather starkly with my plans for sloth and self-proclaimed status as a “very indoorsy kind of guy“. He thinks my current existence is more accurately captured by the epithet “bum”. I guess he just doesn’t understand the word “post-modern” which, of course, means whatever the hell I want it to mean. In this case it means “I’m a goddamn hobo. Fuck off.” Plus, I’m gonna get a hobo hat. Bums don’t have fucking hobo hats.
Now that my work clothes have changed from beige cargo pants and golf shirts to snowflake pajama pants and sweatshirts, I’ve really started to question some social norms. If I have to go out in public, I feel this irrational need to put on real pants. What a pain in the ass. At first, I’d trudged up to the bedroom to get changed. Then I started just changing my pants in the main floor laundry room. One day, I just slipped my jeans on over my pajama pants and, while I almost started to feel like a bit of lazy-ass, I was impressed with how far I’d
sunk come in just nine days and thought this was as good as it was gonna get. But, it was that very day, in the store parking lot, that a guy pulled up, got out of his giant pick-up, a schmoke magically adhering to his lower lip, his filthy ball cap askew, and wearing blue plaid pajama pants. He sauntered into the store like a boss. I want to be him…well, not, of course, the pickup, cigarette, baseball hat or, general himness…just the ability to rock comfy pants in public. Someday…
Now that kids are grown and out on their own, my wife and I no longer have to make sure there’s a fucking vegetable with every meal nor do we have to eat at specific times. Our feeding schedule is all over map to such an extent that the traditional meal names no longer seem appropriate. I’ve taken to calling them:
1. Post-coffee/email/Facebook/coffee sugary thing.
2. Mid-morning leftovers
3. Early afternoon graze
4. The Whenever-We’re-Fucking-Hungry meat and starch
5. Netflix Salt-lick
I don’t miss the work-a-day world one bit. Sure, petty annoyances like the Philip Fucking Seymour Hoffmanapalooza that took over every fucking news channel for days on end and the goddamn Baptists across the goddamn road with their goddamn church bells every goddamn Sunday exist in my hobolife…but they’re a lot easier to take if you’re wearing pajama pants and eating nachos while binge-watching Justified.
“I like the word ‘indolence’. It makes my laziness seem classy” – Bernard Williams