David McElroy

I read this week that close to half of American households would be unprepared for an emergency that cost them $400. I had a mixed reaction to this news.

I felt thankful that I’m not among them, but I felt a shiver of empathy for them — because I was one of them not very long ago.

Back when I was working in politics full time, I made a nice living. After I became experienced and well-known in my political circles, I didn’t make less than six figures in a year, sometimes substantially more than that. I was comfortable and I bought what I wanted. I had plenty of money.

About 10 or 12 years ago, I started getting out of politics. I’ve talked about this before. I lost respect for what I was doing. I came to believe it was wrong, both pragmatically and philosophically. But it was hard to turn the money down. Slowly, though, I “sabotaged” my way out of politics.

That’s when things turned ugly.

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You have gotten much thinner
You’re lookin’ like a shadow
It’s from dwelling on the might-have-beens
Living in a time-warp
To whom am I speaking? Some ghost from the past?
While you think about old glories
You’re fading real fast
— “Memory Lane,” Daniel Amos (Doppelgänger, 1983)

I’ve fallen down that rabbit hole called Memory Lane tonight. To be more honest, though, I didn’t really fall in here, as though I had no control over things. No, I jumped in with both feet — and now I can’t seem to find my way out.

It started with a woman, but that’s not really unusual, because these trips frequently start with a woman. They start with a faint memory that turns into a burning need to relive something warm and delightful.

And from there, I slide into the warmth and security of love.

Of being loved. Of losing love.

And then to the quagmire of what might have been — the bittersweet longing that’s equal parts hope and love and despair and emptiness.

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