The guy who cuts my hair is old enough that his friends and acquaintances have started to die.
He won’t divulge his own age, but his friends are in their late 60s and early 70s. Not ancient, and younger than the life span you’d expect from an actuarial table.
One guy was a locally prominent entrepreneur. He made a small fortune and built his dream house, but was then diagnosed with lung cancer at the ripe old age of 63. He died six months later.
Another friend of his was a physician. She ran marathons, volunteered for good causes, and then built her dream house in a picturesque mountain town. Soon after moving in, the doctors found a malignant tumor the size of a tennis ball. She also died within a few months.
I have good friend from work, about the same age — 69 or so. He’s spent the last few years renovating a fine mid-century modern, laying out a garden, making his own dream home. And, yeah, he’s been given two years to live because of a misdiagnosed heart condition.
So, if you want a long life and happy retirement, the lesson is clear: Don’t build that fucking dream house.