Jaimie gives me a glassy, slightly amused look, and I look back at her... or is it a him? Could never figure it out with goldfish. Anyway, she's too pretty to be a "him".

"You should find some private work you can do from home and not really stress yourself. Don't you get bored just looking at that fish all day along?" My wife keeps going on like a broken record, usually when she's annoyed with something, or someone. Most often, it's me.

I guess watching me sit around all day in track pants and a beat-up Mets jersey, watching an equally jobless goldfish swim up and down, makes her feel like she's the only one with work to do. Sure, I help out around the house when I can, but I'm retired: I've got a license to be lazy.

Feels like a lifetime ago when I'd wake up every morning to my trusty alarm clock. I'd get showered and dressed, sometimes eat but always grab a coffee, and spend an hour stuck in crazy traffic. I was a soldier in an army, a never-ending, bumper-to-bumper, motorized brigade of infantrymen in ties, shirts, and suit, shiny shoes pumping accelerators and brakes. We'd creep in and out of places in a parade of traffic as we tried to trim a few seconds off our travel time, some cursing and giving the finger, others tranquil in a cocoon of bliss woven by morning radio or self-help tapes.

I always made it on time to the bank where I served as a junior manager. Work was always a lot of running up and down, with many a "Yes, sir!" and "No, sir!" for my bosses and the occasional difficult customer. The stuff I had to put up with... – you can't imagine how many times I heard someone spout "I DEMAND to speak to the branch manager NOW!"

I deserve the right to be lazy. I guess some people don't understand that after you've done your bit for your family, provided them with money and security, that you've earned your time to, dare I say, be a bum.

Despite my life of leisure, I'm not completely free of worry. Both my sons are setting out down their own paths. My eldest, Anthony, a pretty smart kid, attends college in California where he studies chemistry. The younger, Paul, just out of high school, is taking some time off before college. That's a concern.

When he came in last night, he smelled like a bar. Not that I'm against having the occasional drink, but you know kids these days - always going to extremes, binge drinking, drugs, and God knows what else. Sometimes I feel that as a parent, it's better off we don't know what else. An effective "don't ask, don't tell" policy can keep the peace, and could spare me another heart attack. The first one was bad enough.

"Hey, Dad, could I borrow the car, just for a few hours? I'll be back by six, promise," Paul shouts as he hurries out his room. I look away from the fish bowl to point my chin towards the coffee table, where the keys to my 1999 Toyota Corolla lie.

"Thanks. Listen, Dad, you look really bored. Why don't you, like, look into something to keep you occupied? You know, like a part time job or something? Anyway, think about it." He leaves.

I look at Jaimie and sigh. "You hear that? They'll never understand. At least you do, right?" I gaze into her eyes, and they gleam with silent, reassuring agreement.

She knows.