What is the meaning of life? Humanity has been asking that question since the first exhausted caveman looked up at the sky, watched lightning hit a tree, and figured, “Well, there’s probably a god involved.” Thousands of years later, we have philosophy, religion, self-help podcasts, and WordPress daily prompts. And unfortunately, you also have me. Kevin. Retired tech worker and part-time smart ass philosopher.
Buddy, I worked in tech for forty years. The meaning of life was delivering code and keeping the system running, conference calls, passwords with seventeen special characters, and pretending the software build was “high priority” while I quietly hoped the entire building would lose power.
People ask this question as if we all spent our twenties sitting on mountaintops reading philosophy. No. Some of us spent our twenties under fluorescent lighting trying to reboot a server while a manager named Timmy screamed, “The client is very upset!” The client was always upset. That was the whole business model.
Now I’m retired, living in Rio de Janeiro, trying to figure out how I became an old man whose daily goals are:
drink coffee
eat pão de queijo
locate missing socks
survive human contact
That’s it. That’s the spiritual journey. Nothing magical or enlightening. It is survival.
You know what the meaning of life becomes at sixty-three? Making it to tomorrow without needing a specialist. Young people think life is about “finding yourself.” I found myself. I’m tired, mildly dehydrated, and yelling at translation apps.
Living in Brazil is beautiful, but nobody warned me that the entire country operates within four inches of your face. There is no personal space. Zero. People hug you at soccer games, in the street, and while offering unsolicited grocery shopping advice.
And Brazilians are cheerful all the time. Even when they’re screaming. Oddly, those can happen simultaneously. It’s unsettling.
I spent four decades in corporate America. My nervous system is permanently calibrated for disaster. If my phone rings unexpectedly, I still assume the server room exploded, or my daughter needs a hundred bucks.
And people keep asking deep philosophical questions:
“What gives your life meaning?”
Meaning?
At this age, the goal is durability. I’m basically a 1978 Monte Carlo with no hair. The meaning of life is maintenance. Stretching before standing up. Knowing which foods will betray you, which becomes important when you no longer move fast enough to recover from poor decisions. Making peace with the fact that your knees now sound like microwave popcorn.
Honestly, retirement is just preparing for tiny inconveniences all day long.
I wake up with a plan:
coffee
beach walk
Maybe read something meaningful
Three hours later, I’m standing in my apartment arguing with a TV remote I accidentally switched to Portuguese while trying to translate menu options on my phone like I’m defusing a bomb.
Even the language humbles you. I’ll confidently walk into a bakery thinking I’m basically fluent now.
“Bom dia, eu gostaria de—”
Then the cashier responds at the speed of a NASCAR pit crew, and suddenly I’m pointing at bread like an injured caveman. Somehow, they still understand you.
Because Brazilians have developed survival skills from centuries of dealing with confused foreigners and emotionally unstable tourists. Now an expat in the neighborhood.
People back home ask:
“So, have you discovered the meaning of life in Brazil?”
Yeah. I think I have. It is the same everywhere.
The meaning of life is accepting that nobody really knows what they’re doing. The rich are confused. The poor are confused. Politicians are confused. But it’s a beach day, and somehow all is good.
We’re all just trying to survive another season like background extras on The Walking Dead.
That’s modern adulthood: wandering around exhausted, looking for snacks, avoiding danger, and wondering where everybody went.
Once you stop searching for some giant cosmic purpose, life gets simpler.
Good coffee matters.
Good bread matters.
A functioning toilet matters.
Knowing where your socks are matters.
Everything else is social media nonsense.
That’s it, the great answer to life’s oldest question from the scratchy retired guy. Now stop complaining.
Thanks for reading BeingKevin.
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