I had a fantastic life in my 20s. I lived in the great cities of Asia and Europe; flew B-class, stayed in Five Stars, built a network of contacts and clients that keep me gainfully employed to this day. The last few years working for myself haven’t been like that. So why don’t I miss it?
The answer comes when I meet people from my past, people still living the expat dream. Not to put too fine a point on it, they’re not candidates for a Greek sculpture. Plump. Soft. Too much hotel food, too many redeye flights. There’s a softness about them that makes them… lacking in something, somehow. Often, their world is narrower than people who lack a passport: they clock up 100,000 Miles and a dozen cities a month, but they stay in the same big-box hotel chains, visit the same expat bars, eat in the same restaurants. Few have the backpacking mindset that started me off on my ten-year journey in the 90s.
Another ten years out, these people look ten years older. Greying. Frownlines. Serious. They’re basically dead people who just haven’t stopped moving yet. Worried about their futures, families, legal matters and pension expectations. Many are in denial.
Whereas my only worry is that I’ll explode under the pressure of my own awesomeness.
Being me is just amazing. I pity the rest of the human population for not being me. I don’t want wealth’s trappings: in fact, I’m getting rid of as many as possible. I don’t want a yacht. A plane. Or even a big house: my little patch of London costs little to run and less to keep clean. What I do want, though, is to remain self-actuated.
Look at what I actually do for a living. I work on a few longterm clients I know well; I add value to property in little chunks; I look after my little pension pot and spread-bet the markets for fun. And, er, that’s about it. It’s all me; I don’t really rely on (and am not beholden to) anyone else. My total costs in life hover around £2k a month and the rest is gravy.
Health, learning, the ability to live in the moment. No real worries in life. That’s wealth.
Is life, perhaps, one long journey towards becoming self-actuated?