I’m jealous of the lad, because he knows what he wants to be when he grows up, and WHY, so he’s got nothing to worry about for the rest of his born days. Hell, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and I have trouble rebutting people who contend that I’ll never grow up, anyway.
I guess that means you can call him Pollyanna and me, Peter Pan.
I don’t remember much from when I was 6, beyond the victorious, warm sensation that enveloped me when I sneaked a kiss from my girlfriend, Jeannie Bartek, on the playground. Until she gave me a fat lip to go with my loose lips. Turns out she was my girlfriend only in Mike’s World, which apparently wasn’t even in her galaxy, so she knocked me back into my own.
And I don’t recall pining for careers like kids always do, daydreaming about being a firefighter or a policeman — or even lawyers and teachers and bakers, oh, my. Well, I did like to pretend I was in fights like the cowboys on TV. (Of course, back then, they never bled, and even if they had, the TV picture was black and white, so there wouldn’t have been any red all over.)
But mostly, as far back as I can fetch a memory, I was going to be a priest, although I still can’t figure out whether it was because I wanted to or because other people thought I should and I let that sway me. (Oh, I did have good times at the vocation evenings the Knights of Columbus sponsored, complete with enticing films about how cool seminary life would be [i.e., fun playing hockey, basketball and football, but not a HINT that philosophy, which seminarians had to major in until right before I entered, and minor in when I was a student, is the spawn of the devil]).
However, I do remember a shaky moment a few months before I went to the seminary when I asked myself, “Do I really want to do this?”
But I figured it was too late to change my mind. I already had let my college scholarship go to somebody else, and I figured Jody didn’t like me all that much anyhow, and I already had bought my cassock and collar, so inertia propelled me to the sem.
Although I had a great time in the seminary (pay no attention to the coffee cup perpetually attached to my hand or the occasional nip of vodka it concealed [nobody suspected, because the cup was like an appendage at all hours, and everybody figured it always contained just coffee]), the mistress of journalism eventually wooed me away from the altar.
So here I sit, still journaling, all these decades later, after wearing out my soles as a reporter pounding the pavement before detouring into editing instead of saving souls as a priest who was bound for Rome, as S’ter Reparata envisioned things.
Of course, that’s not to say that other pursuits haven’t beckoned.
At various times in my life, I’ve wanted to be able to:
· Write music and sing as well as Gene Pitney. (Fat chance.)
· Play the guitar as well as Dwight Yoakham. (Small hands.)
[Dadgum YouTube disabled most Yoakham videos by request, but here’s a URL to what I consider his best:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2qo1x9rcCc
And here’s one that matches ME:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQcGkzXmPjY ]
· Moonwalk as well as Michael Jackson. (Big feet.)
(Obviously, the only thing I have in common with Michael is the name, and I prefer Mike. Only nuns and old ladies are allowed to call me Michael, so watch yourself!)
· Moonwalking is not to be confused with walking on the moon, like the Buzz that Neil Armstrong got first. (Scared of heights.)
· Own a charter fishing boat. (Saw "Jaws" and realized I’d need a bigger boat than I could ever afford.)
· Play golf like Arnold Palmer. (Can’t get past bunker mentality.)
· Do stand-up comedy like George Carlin’s. (Oh, I can be plenty sarcastic, but he’s LOTS funnier.)
Speaking of the late, great, Carlin, even though I can’t do stand-up like him, I’m getting up in years so that someday I might be an Old Fart, like he talks about, except he uses a different F word from fart — as you can imagine he would.
Etc., etc., you get the drift. My dreams are the stuff Walter Mittys are made of.
But enough about me. This is about Jack, and my envy of his life plan. To celebrate the lad’s recent sixth birthday, Kate and I took him out to dinner.
I immediately discovered two facts that placed him at opposite poles:
· Jack was a little miffed that the restaurant didn’t supply crayons with the kids placemat with fun activities such as coloring on them (what part of practical don’t you understand, national chain whose name I won’t use for free advertising but is the opposite of hot?).
· Even though he wanted to take advantage of the juvenile placemat, he opted to order from the adult menu. (Thus, the price of his entre skied immediately from, like $4.95 including dessert, to, like $12.95 for the sirloin steak PLUS the 6 or 7 bucks for the molten chocolate lava lamp cake he ordered.
At any rate, though, I was impressed with how adult he was, and Kate was stunned at his encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs, which surface as he perused the dinosaur book we gave him.
He not only wiped out the steak but also nearly demolished the cinnamon apples he had opted for instead of fries on the side. (How many kids would pick fruit over fries at a restaurant, when Mom’s not around?)
And, when the waitress asked about dessert, before I had a chance to ask whether he still had room, he ordered the bazillion-calorie cake. Well, it was his birthday, and he polished most of it off himself, although Kate and I helped a little.
During a lull in his dinosaur lecture, Kate asked him what he wants to be when he grows up.
With little hesitation, he replied, “A bagger at Publix,” a ubiquitous grocery store chain here in Florida.
I was taken aback, as I expected him to say a paleontologist or some such animal-related occupation.
Kate pressed, as she is wont to do, asking why he wanted to be a bagger at Publix.
“Because then I can just go home at the end of the day and not worry about work,” he said.
What a brilliant observation from such a young man, eh? Oh, I suppose he based it partly on the fact that he sees his dad work a lot at home, because part of his job is home-based.
But STILL, it made this Silver Fox envious, because I’ve spent my whole LIFE taking work home.
On the other hand, TELL me: Would you let THIS guy bag your groceries?
No comments:
Post a Comment