It’s just in a coma.
A big, fat, ugly coma full of nightmares and the scent of Rush Limbaugh’s cigars. The kind that black market organ thieves look for to stock up on inventory.
Don’t despair. You will wake up. Just make sure you bring a different financial perspective with you when you do.
Because the world will look significantly different when you come out of it.
And if you’re already dead when that happens – because it just might take that long –let’s hope the first thing you see is someone with cute little wings and a cherubic smile as they serve you a warm, calorie-free Cinnabon.
And a completely clean financial slate.
Heaven. Where once again everybody gets a mortgage just by asking.
The Times They Are Still a’Changin’
Meanwhile, the past is gone. Dead and buried. We have to learn to live with it. Or the memory will bury us, too.
The real nightmare resides in believing that things will go back to the way they were. Not just for you, but for the metrics that sum it all up.
They won’t. It was a bubble. Which means it never was. Pinning your hopes on the next bubble is like hoping Santa drops by for a latte in July.
If he does, he’s only there to borrow a few bucks to tide him over ‘til the Season.
Not so long ago we were looking at brochures for timeshares and second homes in places where postal workers wear shorts. Now we’re shopping for used davenports that will fit through the cellar door at your parent’s place, because that’s where you’re living for the foreseeable future.
The real estate market, it is said, will take as long as a decade to recover. That equity you once reflected upon and included in your mental net worth is now vaporized, along with that condo in Cabo dream.
You used to be able to touch your toes, too. The past is the past.
The stock market? Not much better. Until employment stabilizes, the national debt shrinks, inflation slows, the two parties find a way to get along and Mel Gibson shuts up, your IRA is just going to sit there.
And if you’re over 50 and looking for a job? Somewhere there is a 24-year old MBA laughing his or her ass off at your expense.
Good News/Bad News: My son is in college.
Big time expensive school with huge name cache. He recently told me, in lieu of committing to a field of study, that it didn’t matter what major he declared, he’ll have his pick of career paths and job offers when he graduates.
Thus far he’s majoring in beer.
No, he’s not attending the University of Denial. It’s just that he’s been hearing that line of American Dream crap for a decade.
It was true for the first half of it. He, too, is living in the past.
Of course, my son won’t believe me when I tell him the economic prospects of the past are as viable as John Edwards’ presidential aspirations, so I’m hopeful that one of those esteemed professors will step forward and get real with all the kids who are forking over fifty grand a year to sit in those esteemed classrooms.
Until then, I continue to fund his meal plan.
You may be wondering where this is going, other than heading for a flush down the shaft of my pity pot.
I’ve actually got a positive message for you today. It’s about that American Dream we used to think we shared or at least unde
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