Filthy lucre

I want to retire now.
Today (after going to the dentist to get an imprint of my teeth made so I can procure personalized teeth whitening trays) I met up with a woman that I met back in Grade 1.  I mean, she wasn't a woman then: we were in Grade 1 together.
She has a couple of kids and is having her house renovated and so I wasn't surprised that she was running slightly behind schedule and I took the ten minutes to survey the patrons of the Starbucks that I was patronizing.  At 1pm.  On a Monday.  It was packed: I got the last table.  And I wondered "don't these people work?".
They weren't octogenarians.
They weren't students cramming for impending exams.
The place was full of fit and capable people - the attractiveness ratio was rather high - that were just having coffee with other fit and capable people.
I was in Edgemont, which is to the North Shore what Kerrisdale and Point Grey are to Vancouver.  Wealthy.  Monied.
I sat there with dark roots and the winter coat I bought from the GAP years ago that has a button ready to fall off, clad additionally in an acrylic sweater I recently purchased at Reitmans for $20 and my $40 AE jeans.  I was, however, wearing my new glasses which are absolutely money, baby.
And as I watched the very attractive women whose only job it is in life is to maintain their figures and have their hair done and say placating things to their children when they pick them up from whatever private school in West Van it is that they go to, I thought: I like this. 
I like not working.
I have enjoyed the hell out of my four day weekend.
It was nice to go to a butcher and buy cruelty free meat.  I had a great work out at the gym.  I joshed with my dentist.  I bought halva at the produce store.  I had a two hour coffee with someone that I lost touch with maybe 15 years ago.  I even enjoyed making dinner and then squeezing in an episode of Californication.
My biggest dilemma today was do I blog?  Or should I continue on with "The Tenderness of Wolves" (great book, by the way - I do recommend)?
I'm not staying I want to be a size two blonde with a huge rock on her finger who is fucking her tennis instructor with no sense of guilt because of the waylaid email that I happened to stumble across from my husband's personal assistant that made reference to a brief bout of debauchery that flared up during that one night they had to work late to put the final glossiness on the quarterly presentation he was scheduled to give in Toronto the next week.  Nor do I want to be the parent to some sullen 14 year old that hates me because I "just don't get" her and is fellating boys in darkened stairwells because she craves attention and it's either that or cultivate an eating disorder.
And I don't want a tiny dog, or really expensive rubber boots that have ridiculous patterns on them.
No. 
I just don't want to work.
I'm adept at it.
Hopefully this year I can give it a bit more of a think and figure out a way to reach this goal sooner, rather than later.
So far I have:

• marry rich
• entrap the CFO at work in a sexual scandal and blackmail him
• embezzle from work
• throw myself in front of a car and sue six ways from Sunday.

Unfortunately:

• I am not good looking enough, nor do I have the requisite tits to marry rich
• I like the CFO at work: he's vegetarian and his wife is a trail runner and he plays soccer
• I am ethically incapable of stealing
• getting run over by a car could go rather awry.

So. 
There it is, then.