Two weeks ago, I cracked open a spigot I’ve been avoiding for some time. Might as well turn the faucet on full flow.

Turns out, I have a lot of money. Not billionaire money. Not crazy amounts that would take decades to disburse. But plenty enough to do whatever I want. Actually, much more than required to do whatever I want. After all, one of my favorite mantras is, “It doesn’t take much money to be Paul Fallon.”

I don’t know how I managed to absorb a lifetime of messages of economic prudence while repelling the usual corollaries of indulgence upon maturity. Now that I’m old and rich, I can have all sorts of luxuries. Except they hold no appeal.

I have some family and friends who did not adequately save for old age. They’re frustrated by their economic constraints. Fortunately, the safety net for old folks is more robust than for the rest of the populace, so they have basic food and shelter and health care. They can do pretty much everything I want to do, though they yearn to do more.

More common among my mostly well-educated, mostly affluent friends, is that they’ve saved enough to savor creature comforts. Which they do with relish. They enjoy the most recently fashionable restaurants. They have concierge medicine. They travel, often first class. They quip how they can’t take it with them as if it’s a moral imperative to spend all their money before they die.

This is a perspective I do not understand.

Money is a peculiar resource because, unlike coal or water or sunshine, it’s created by humans. It’s not finite; at least not since we slipped off the gold standard. It’s easily renewable, as we consistently make more of it, just because. It’s also peculiar in that, unlike gas or electric, it’s pre-assigned. We possess the resource (whether outright or through debt) before we use it. And yet I still consider money to be a resource because it is something we can choose to steward, or exploit.

In theory, money is just a medium of exchange, useless in its own right. In fact, in America, it’s the ultimate measure of who anyone is. Unless, like me, you choose to steward money as you would any precious resource. To live below your means. To consider money a security blanket against the vagaries of an uncertain world. A blanket that I hope to flutter among the quick when I’m six feet under and no longer in need of any warmth save that of mother earth.

I don’t feel any compunction to spend whatever digits appear on my bank statement. Not today, not tomorrow, not any time before I die. When I move on, I’m quite content to have them transferred to others, preferably in a way that benefits them and aligns with my personal values. Some consider it a waste of luxury unspent. I call it my legacy.