Like millions of other Americans, I have survived 18 months of a global public health emergency that might easily have tanked the entire U.S. economy, only to find myself with a weird and unexpected surplus of cash in my bank account. The mechanism by which it got there is still not really clear to me. All I was doing was working my regular job. My stimulus checks were chiefly sent right back in the form of donations. But somehow, the lack of travel and a pattern of sponging off my immediate family had evidently trimmed my living expenses so much that—far from facing the economic collapse we all feared at the start of this pandemic—I was flush.
Add to that a small investment account and a trust, and I had started to regard my job as a kind of voluntary gesture. "I'll work because it's a way to help others," I loftily informed myself, "But I could leave it any time." And lo, earlier today, I decided that time had come. I was ready for the next chapter. Time to move on, maybe go back to school. Or just experiment with living for a while, free of the self-imposed burden of remunerative employment. Oh, to be sure, I knew that health insurance is costly, and I'd have other expenses. But I just looked at that unprecedentedly fat bank balance and knew I was in the clear.