When I was in high school, I had a few more dreams than I do now. Back then I had the preposterous idea of becoming an actor. Sure, I’d been in a few plays here or there, but no matter the training, the stage just isn’t the place for the sensibilities of a mature adult. I know. I’ve been assured.
My co-workers from Bruster’s Ice Cream and Men’s Wearhouse that are old enough for experience saved my dream chasing by reminding me that should I ever want to afford the finer things in life such as tickets to the movies or a CD every now and again, then it’d be prudent for me to fix myself on a successful career, love it or hate it, that would allow me those much needed breaks from the daily grind. They’d laugh as I rattled off juvenile dreams of an epic-sized life. “You’ll learn, just like I had to,” their experience reassured me.
But I’m not totally cured. Lately, I’ve been stricken with the idea that I might even enjoy being some sort of writer, even if only just on the side. But clearly that is just as asinine a thought as dreams of thespianism, if not more so. See, I’m no English major. I’m just glad I caught it early before it got out of hand.
