There are a lot of things in life I am both wary and weary of; from bad drivers and lousy parkers to conmen and snatch thieves, from fairweather friends and deceitful kin to tale carriers and yarn spinners, from pessimists and nay-sayers to the opinionated, the prejudiced and the holier-than-thous .. the list is endless.
While hardly a model citizen and paragon of virtue myself, having had the unenviable past of being a shallow-thinking moron in my younger days, I try to redeem myself by trying to be more accepting and less judgemental. Be that as it may, I would be the first to admit it is easier said than done.
Given my age, I guess it is no big mystery that I tend to view things from the perspective of a half-centurian who is all too aware of her own mortality.
The death of my mother in May this year brought home this realisation that I, representing the subsequent generation, am not too far away from that eventuality myself.
Which is why, I have difficulty understanding some people in my age group and older (and I am talking about the ones I am acquainted with personally) who just don't seem to be satisfied with their lot in life.
I can well understand if the ones grousing earn minimal pay and have problems making ends meet each month. But we are not talking puny little lots here (with a recent Beemer model in a multiple-car garage, it can't be that puny, can it?).
Lest it be misunderstood, I speak without malice. It is just a reflection of my thoughts, more lucid in this blessed month of Ramadan, brought about by someone's remark about Pak Abu and I settling for an apartment the size of someone's parlour.
"For the money that you paid for this place, you could have bought a piece of land and built a bungalow just outside the city." It is an innocent, true enough statement.
The thing is, I would have, IF I had wanted to. But I didn't. All I wanted was a decent roof over my head; more specifically, a cozy little pad, safe and secure, in a place where everything is within reach.
I found my little corner of paradise tucked away in centrally-located TTDI, in a condo development largely populated by pensioners and retirees. And the size of my living quarters is nobody's business but my own.
When death comes a-calling, what good is a multi-storeyed bungalow in prestigious Damansara Heights, sparklers enough to light up downtown Kuala Lumpur, a king-of-the-road whose engine purrs like a Rhineland fraulein, and stocks and shares and cold hard cash by the millions?
You can't take them with you, not a single darn thing. So when is enough well and truly enough?