One time, a few years back, I went on a cruise to the Carribbean.
At St. Maarten, we had to take a water taxi from the cruise ship to the main island.
I remember thinking back then that the barefoot captain, dressed in Bermudas with flowing dreadlocks had it made. Underneath the boat's canopy, reggae music played, drinks were passed out, all the tourists were either suntanned or sunburned, all smiling as they swayed to the music and the gentle waves. Big straw hats, cameras draped around necks, giant floral beach bags slung over shoulders, sunglasses in every shade, brightly colored toenails slipped inside sandy flip flops... Not a care in the world for me nor for any of those tourists. Certainly not for the "captain", who I feel confident would have much preferred to have been called "the jolly mahn".
I remember making a mental note then and there that I had just discovered, quite innocently, the world's most perfect job. And, to this day, I can still clearly picture "the jolly mahn's" feet propped up on a step stool with one hand casually draped over the steering wheel. I sometimes wish I'd have snapped a photo - but, no matter. The mind captured it.
Today, work was...well, I promised to keep this blog family-friendly. So, I really can't think of an appropriate word to use to describe work today. I can tell you that I was muttering plenty of R-rated words all day long while pressing the mute button on my phone ad nauseum or that I was angrily pounding out texts to my fellow coworkers, cursing the same annoyances as me.
One of my texts was to my very dear friend, Erika. I told her that I wanted to quit my job and paint and write. And her response, in her very dear friend way was "Let's do it!"
Of course, with my lack of skillz, my family would starve if I chose a life as a (literally) starving artist. So, of course, I knew that she and I were just fantasizing. Frankly at that point in our day today, I'd have taken a job dressed as a giant pizza dancing and holding a sign advertising Three-For-One Tuesdays at Antonio's Pizza Shack.
And then my friend Jamie texted me. Both Erika and Jamie are coworkers, but they are also friends.
Jamie shared with me that 1.) she's been following my blog (OMG sista - my heart melted!) and 2.) her dad had bought a farm, cows and all! Jamie said it was a hobby and that he was really enjoying it, and I remarked that, wow, too many of us sit on our dreams waiting for something to come along to entice us just enough to make it happen. Jamie mentioned in her casually cool way that her dad has always been the sort of person to just "go for it".
Man, I wish I were that type of person.
Sure, I'll strike up a conversation with just about anyone. And, when push comes to shove, I can be pretty creative. But every day I sit in my little office worrying about my job (high $$ + capitalism + human lives - compassion = inner struggle). I had never pictured myself where I am right this moment in my career. Though, do any of us really?
Sure there are the ones who live for baseball and then wind up (ha!) pitching for the Cubs. Or the trust-fund babies who become celebrities based solely on their bank accounts, no real job required except to occasionally make the cover of People. Those sorts of jobs never appealed to me.
Me, my lifelong dream was to be a writer. I've had articles published here and there. And I've journaled off and on for as long as I can remember. But I've never really "gone for it". I don't have a novel in the works (heck, I don't even have any ideas for a novel). An autobiography would find its way to dollar store shelves. A biography would bore me to tears. Poetry confuses me. Maybe a short story would be the ticket?
Or maybe I can keep blogging. No money to be made, but I'd be satisfied that I've written and someone, maybe even just one or two people, would have read what I'd written down.
And, more than that, maybe someone would actually come away with a different perspective.
I don't think I'm there yet. I don't think I'm even all that close. But, during these few hours of peace in the house (when really I should be dusting or folding undies), I get to have my dream job. I'm not paid for it, not in money.
But when people like Erika and Jamie, two people I respect very much, tell me that they've been following my blog, it makes me ponder, if only for a second, that I might have something interesting to say after all.
When my dad posts a comment regarding one of my projects, it makes me realize that what I'm sharing is interesting to at least one other person.
When my very dear friend Petra says that something I wrote "spoke to her and where she is in her life", it brings tears to my eyes (heart you, homegirl).
When my mom gets out her glasses and lovingly critiques my spelling and then says "Very nice, honey" after reading, it brings me back to my childhood and is equivalent to her putting an A+ paper on the refrigerator.
So, I maintain that, while I'm never going to be my own "jolly mahn" with my own sunny, tourist-filled water taxi, this is my dream job. I may not make it into The Atlantic Monthly or Reader's Digest, but I am allowed to fill these text boxes with all of my thoughts, dreams, wishes, ideas, hopes, fears.... And you, dear reader, whoever you might be tonight, are allowed to take away from these words whatever you like...
Thank you for allowing me to keep my dream job.... :-)
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