Crazy Bunny

This quest is nuts. You know it, I know it - even my terrier knows it. What kind of normal, average adult person would think she's capable of earning five million dollars in just a few years? I mean, other than politicians, criminals, and conspicuous consumers, who would even try?

Uh, that would be me. No politician, no criminal (yes, I see the redundancy), and no exhibitionist addicted to bigger and better stuff - I am crazy enough, and motivated enough, to do this, and do it right. Believe me, I know all about right, because I've done so much wrong before.

(Cue flashback music ...)

Last January, I was reading Larry Winget's fabulous book, You're Broke Because You Want to Be. I swear, I was previewing it for one of my grown children (because she needs her butt royally kicked about handling money sometimes) but it spoke to me, too. Fifteen years ago I was just as big a blockhead with finances as she is now, and I hoped to help her avoid the guillotine that made me change my wicked ways. As I read his lessons, I realized I had already made several of the corrections he (and other experts) suggested, and, while I'm hardly perfect, we are well into the black now instead of blood red as we were then. So, I was busily patting myself on the back when he asked how rich I plan to be.

Rich? Me? (Plan?) Hadn't really thought about “rich,” much less the dreaded p-word - at first because I was fighting to get us solvent and to build funds in see-no-money, spend-no-money auto deductions, and then, later, because I didn't dare think about any money that could mysteriously make its way back into the income-outlay stream. With my emotion-driven, impulse-control-challenged personality, I hadn't even done an asset vs. obligation worksheet since we were mid-five-figures in debt. But I couldn’t help wondering how rich was rich.

"Five million," said my inner diva.

"Why five million?" said I.

"Why not?" she purred.

Why not, indeed? In fifteen years, I had developed good fiscal habits, learned to short-circuit even the tiniest "more" button, and kissed the last of my energy-gobbling, food-eating, money sinkholes (whom I adore) goodbye years ago. For all I knew we were halfway there already.

But the very things that had saved our future back then told me I didn't need that much, not now, not in retirement. We were comfortably chugging along, and with a bit of tweaking ...

"Not for you," said the persuasive little rat. "For him."

Damn. She had me. I grew up in a household that spent money when we had it, starved when we didn't, and moved every time my father decided his boss was a jerk (we moved 16 times). I married a man who's had only three jobs in the three decades I've known him, and one of them was a part-time college make-do. Why? Because before he even popped the question he decided that he would give me the security I’d never known, and the freedom to work at whatever I wanted, wherever I wanted, forevermore. And, mostly, I have.

I want so badly to return that gift. And I know he will never retire "selfishly" unless I make him an offer he can't refuse. So I gave into my diva because I love him with everything in me, and - miracle of miracles - he loves me more.

Want proof? For one thing, the man calls me "Bunny." I'm nearly six feet tall, and though I've spent a year losing the equivalent weight of both my grandchildren combined, I still tip the scales at 180. I'm more "Blue Ox" than "Babe," more "Harvey" than "Bunny," and always have been. But he thinks I'm adorable. And brilliant. And funny. And sexy. And wise.

Wouldn't you give a dope like that anything he wants?