Today begins my thirty-(cough ack huwazahhpffftzzzz)th year on this earth. Believe it or not, I don’t feel much different than when I was a teenager. Sure, I might be a little rounder, a bit more weathered in some places, a bit creaky in others, but I still think like a kid, which makes me feel like a kid. I’m wiser, to be sure. Smarter? I don’t know about. But at least I have all my hair. Still in the original color.
On our nightly walk last eve, Mrs. Sarcasm commented that the deflated Christmas decorations still on folks’ lawns reminded her of dead dreams. This led to a myriad of thoughts reflective of the things we want to accomplish when we’re young versus how many ever actually get accomplished.
Throughout my life I’ve wanted to do a lot of things. I wanted to be a TV star, so I got a degree in broadcasting., But I never worked in TV, something I occasionally think about, but never really regret. Some years back, I wanted to become a pilot. I talked about it for a long time. Then one day it dawned on me, talk accomplishes little. So, I made that dream happen. There have been times I’ve regretted it, but after sitting in ground school for ten hours a day last week, I’m ever more grateful I don’t go to an office every day. And, I’ve said it before, I finally have a job I don’t hate.
Which leads me to my next dream – that of being a writer. The path of my life led me places I could never have predicted. I dabbled in writing but was never serious until one day based in the complete opposite of serious gave me the kick I needed. It’s funny the things that lead us to make certain choices. If not for a certain ride, at a certain theme park, who knows where I’d be today? What passions would I have? What dreams would I still strive to make come true? And which dreams would be dead?