AFTER MY husband died, I actually began to think about my real retirement.
My eventual old age. (I’m thinking 60.)
I want to spend some time of it in the Philippines.
I’m still romantically thinking of spending a few months in the US, a few months in Europe, a few months in the Philippines.
I’d really like that jet setter lifestyle.
*
But let’s see how the body copes with such grand mental designs.
I’m 49, and I think I already have gout.
I mean, my doctor once diagnosed me, but I never went back to her again after she prescribed me a maintenance dose of Allopurinol.
I don’t like taking medicine!
*
Anyway, in addition to a lot subdivision I bought with my first year salary as a nurse, I bought a few more real properties in Iloilo.
Like three more of them including the one that is being processed (title transfer) this month.
I bought all my real property investments in cash.
And not in installments, mind you.
Yes, I give millions in one sitting!
That’s how cold blooded I am.
*
So now, I’m thinking I need to build structures on these properties.
Do I spend all my money on it?
I’m advised not to use my money to build, but get bank loans instead.
Why?
I still have to pay the bank anyway, right?
Plus the interest!
I really don’t know.
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I still don’t have great business sense.
That’s why I’m looking for a husband who has one.
Okay. Maybe not really a boyfriend.
Maybe, I just need a financial adviser!
But if he’s cute and available, why not?
If you bat for my team, and are nicely built where it matters, you’re on.
I’m single, available, and oh, so sweet.
*
I will not tell you that I don’t have money anymore.
That will be a lie.
But as I always tell those who try to borrow money from me, I am not a bank.
And I’m not interested in getting interest money from you.
And, of course, my favorite line is, “I got money, but my resources are not limitless!”
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I really shouldn’t worry because I am a single guy.
If I die today, I have no family that will go hungry.
But I can get paranoid.
If my bank account is below a certain level, I kinda panic.
*
I mean, I have heard of friends who got 15 million before they’re 30; but who are now honest to goodness penniless.
Bad investments.
Even worse boyfriends.
Sob, sob, sob stories. Of the queens who were once bitches.
*
I do not squander my money.
But when no income is coming, and the bank accounts dip, I can get paranoid, too.
This year, I decided I’m really bored being retired.
If I can squeeze a few more years of Nursing out me, that will really be great.
No, I’m not going back to work full-time.
I’ll pick up a part-time job.
But one that pays me more.
*
So, I decided to work in mental health.
And I work with night differentials. Working midnight to morning.
And I work with weekend differentials. Working only Saturday and Sunday nights.
The rest of the week, I still act like a retired individual.
It’s like I just partied the weekend with the crazies.
*
The thing is, I am beginning to like my job with diagnosed crazy people.
I mean, I deal with undiagnosed crazy people everyday anyway.
The friends I have, they’re a different kind of crazy. They can be fun, eccentric, wonderful people. But they’re crazy.
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My family, they’re another level of crazy. They love me, they hate me, they adore me. But they’re crazy.
My lovers and sex partners, they can be scary crazy. Perverse!
Imagine eating me whole.
Imagine eating me out.
Which makes me think I’m crazy, too.
I mean, being with these crazy friends, family, lovers, and this crazy, crazy world up to now.
*
I’m still not totally into it.
But I am entertaining the idea of taking up more work hours.
I mean, nothing much is happening on my weekdays anyway.
I mean, should I consider getting a blowjob a happening?
Should I consider watching five movies a day a happening?
Should I consider writing this crap a happening?
*
Oh, but this thing you call crap is my column.
And this thing makes me happy.
Writing my thoughts out.
Processing my ideas on the page.
It’s therapeutic. Just like in the mental hospital.
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Even when my patients are screaming and yelling, swearing and cursing me with obscenities, I do not tell them to shut up.
I let them be.
Because I think it’s really therapeutic to have it out in the open what’s in your mind.
Especially what’s in your crazy mind.
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I mean, I’d rather you scream “If you don’t masturbate me, I’ll kill myself!”, than just finding you dead during my next round.
Then, that will be crappy.
Since I will have to really work for my pay, maybe even stay beyond my shift, to do your stupid sentinel event report.
Eff that! Masturbating is easier!
*
I don’t make an effort to shut my patients up.
Why should I?
I’m not paid to shut them up.
They’re crazy.
If you are not happy with how I run my floor, you run it yourself!
I resign! I do not need this job. I’m rich!
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I’m only paid to keep my patients safe and alive.
Actually, that’s not true.
I also get paid even if my patients kill themselves.
I mean, what can I do?
They’re crazy!
If they want to kill themselves, they can kill themselves however vigilant I am.
Trust me. If they’re serious, they will find a way.
*
Here’s the thing: I will be vigilant and proactive, and try to prevent patients from doing self-harm.
But if despite my best efforts, they succeeded to harm or kill themselves, that’s not my problem anymore.
Maybe they should not have done it in the first place.
But whatever the outcome, just get me paid.
Because I am a nurse.
I am not God. (500tinaga@gmail.com/PN)
