Don’t show me the money

That bitter line by Wallace Shawn, slightly paraphrased, from Louis Malle’s wonderful 1981 movie, “My Dinner With Andre,’’ has stuck in my mind for all these years. Recently, I’ve thought of it more often. I’ve begun to think that Wally was on to something.

Newspapers used to have cheerful, wide-ranging columns on senior life. Today, the closest thing to it is the column in the Globe business section, under the daily Wall Street report, which is often about the funding of retirement: stocks, bonds, annuities, insurance, Social Security and 401(k) plans, strategies for protecting wealth. Not about grandchildren or love or art, not friends or community or good times. Money.

When we were first married, we lived in a tiny apartment. We had almost no savings and lived on two jobs that paid about $15,000 per year combined. We sat by the fire, listened to records on our cheap hi-fi, and sipped cloying Mateus rosé. We rode our bikes, with our son riding on the back, to free band concerts. When we traveled, we drove one battered car, and camped or stayed in youth hostels. We went to movies and never ate out. We bought every stitch we owned at Marshall’s. We gazed at the shimmering ocean and never noticed the yachts. We thought daisies were better than orchids.

We thought about money, of course, but didn’t let worries about it spoil our fun, so long as basic needs were met. I seem to recall that we actually considered ourselves lucky. We had each other. We were confident that the future would work out. Hindsight is a fantasy, but I believe we were reasonably happy.

What happened? When did I begin to think about more and fancier possessions, to pay attention to other people’s vacations and second homes, or where their kids went to college? When did I begin to frown when I got a pay raise because it meant higher taxes? For that matter, to think of charity partly as a tax strategy? When did I start checking account balances more and more often? When did I start to think that no matter how much we had, it would be nice to have more?

It’s not that we have all that much. It’s just that while we’re far better off than we were in those early days, it doesn’t seem to me that I’m far happier. In fact, without a scrap of evidence, I have a hunch that there is a danger of people, like Wally in the movie, to think more about money as they get older, perhaps more than they should.

If I’m right, why would it be so?

Could it be that money becomes a kind of consolation of aging? After all, we have to let go of the light-footedness and suppleness we had when we were young, as well as the airy optimism that the future is bright and all will be well. But money is always young. The faces of senior citizens like Barbra Streisand, whose suspiciously unlined visage appeared in a profile in last week’s Times, remind us that money can even buy the appearance of youth.

Yes, I know that later in life, we think different because we have no big career advances in the future. Financial security is mostly based on savings, investments, and pensions. That feels less secure than working (an idea which gives the Hyatt housekeepers a bitter laugh). We worry about getting sick, about not wanting to become a burden to our kids. We think about seniors we know who are virtual paupers in nursing homes. We being sensible and reasonable. Still, it leaves me slightly uneasy.

Without hiring Dr. 90210, we can’t turn back the calendar. Even so, I would like to get back to that former state of mind, which might have been a fool’s paradise but strikes me now as wise and healthy. To think that life is good if you’ve got friends, family, and health. To think about real financial needs, but not continually to count assets. To pay more attention to art, poetry, and music. To think, even if the stock market crashed and you lost nearly everything, you’d still have much to be thankful for. To go out in the field, now and then, and pick a bunch of daisies.

David Mehegan can be reached at dmehegan@bu.edu.