To be frank I was hoping my life in retirement was going to be more like a beer ad.
The latest one would have me reaching in to the fridge to be welcomed by an ageless Lionel Richie, singing ‘Hello’, whilst handing me a cold one. Yep I could handle that…particularly on the occasions where I reach in the fridge only to pull out fat free soy milk.
Or the one where I’d have a bag of cash (assumingly stolen) under the bar only to have the police chase me down the streets and causeways of LA…whilst not spilling a drop I might add. On the contrary, retirement seems to be doing a good job of spilling copious quantities of cash out of my superannuation bags.
Or the ones where I’m lapping it up on XXXX island. Endless fishing, drinking, eating of said fish, snoozing in hammocks, and shits’n’giggles with my mates. Well I’ve not booked so much as a flight to anywhere so far in retirement, let alone one that sounds like that much fun.
Even my men’s shed isn’t that cool. I’ve only got a 27inch TV, which is on the blink, a fridge that only seems to knock the room temperature off the beer and my pool table’s lopsided…that and we have to play with shortened cue sticks because the shed’s too small in the first place.
What is it with beer ads…they’re so good at taking us away to a place we’d like to be, surrounded by beautiful ladies and other nice things, but the next ad (most likely one for mortgages or power bills) jolt us out of our dreamy stupor and smash us back down to reality. And no matter how much beer, of any brand, I drink, my life seems to get further and further away from resembling anything that looks even remotely like the fun-fueled life they promise.
Most disturbingly though, with my weak and shrinking bladder, I can’t even drink the required quantity to invoke the use of my beer goggles.