DAYDREAMING
"It was a dream of perfect bliss,
Too beautiful to last." Thomas Haynes Bayly, It Was A dream.
Serious daydreaming has always been my way of putting a positive spin on a bad day, of putting a little panache in my prosaic life. In my dreams I am appealing, charismatic, empowered, chic, cool. My neighbors envy me, wish they were me, doing whatever I am doing to help them through their prosaic little lives. I am the pitcher. I am the quarterback. I am the entrepreneur. I am the author. I am the artist. I am...IT!
"Judy, if I had to do it all over again I would race cars. Nextel Cup. Nothing less."
"You have a bad day, dear," she said. "Truck running late...breakdown...rejection."
"I'm serious," I said. "You'd love it, too. The television camera's on us as we're walking hand in hand to my car before the start of the race...I'm the favorite...The camera's on you in the pit, praying, screaming, crying as I cross the finish line to win the Daytona 500."
"You did, didn't you," she said. "Somebody have an accident?"
"No," I said. "But it was bad."
When I was a kid I thought I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle (along with Billy Crystal and the majority of Little Leaguers in 1962). Thinking...knowing...I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle made it easier to tolerate Mrs. Lawson's incessant screaming at me in seventh grade history class for not studying and constantly daydreaming about becoming the next Mickey Mantle. I was listening to the Yankees game against the Kansas City Athletics on May 23, 1963 when Mantle hit a prodigious home run off KC's Bill Fischer. The ball was still rising when it hit the upper deck facade in right field, missing by six feet being the only fair ball hit out of Yankee Stadium. "I can do that, Mrs. Lawson!" I screamed. Better yet, I was going to one-up Mantle. I was going to be the first ballplayer to hit a fair ball OUT of Yankee Stadium! At that time I was an athletic, five-foot five-inch, one hundred twenty pound twelve- year-old. I was whacking HRs every day in Little League. I didn't need to study.
When I graduated high school I was five-seven and weighed one hundred forty pounds.
Forty years after the Mantle epiphany, after realizing I am not endowed with enough genes to hit a golf ball out of Yankee Stadium, and after admitting Mrs Lawson was right, I should have studied, I have mellowed. My daydreams are now tempered with a healthy dose of reality. (Although I do believe I have racing genes in me. Nextel Cup. Nothing less.) Late trucks, breakdowns, rejections, and accidents now generate dreams of simple pleasures and unfufilled goals. A simpler lifestyle in a different climate. A retooling of my limited skills. Being IT is not important. Being me is.
"Judy, I've got it!"
"Another bad day, dear."
"I'm serious! You'll love it, too. Let's move to Key West and open a restaurant. Something small with a limited menu. Eight or ten tables. Gourmet macaroni dishes a specialty. Macaroni and broccoli, macaroni and cauliflower, macaroni and red kidney beans, macaroni and peas. All with or without hot peppers. We could fly in celebrity chefs or randomly select a male or female who loves to cook to be our chef for a day. And I will sit on top of the bar in a Hawaiian shirt, drink Coronas all day, and greet customers from all over the world."
"It was a bad day, wasn't it?"
"Real bad...real bad."
The Highway Reporter
Too beautiful to last." Thomas Haynes Bayly, It Was A dream.
Serious daydreaming has always been my way of putting a positive spin on a bad day, of putting a little panache in my prosaic life. In my dreams I am appealing, charismatic, empowered, chic, cool. My neighbors envy me, wish they were me, doing whatever I am doing to help them through their prosaic little lives. I am the pitcher. I am the quarterback. I am the entrepreneur. I am the author. I am the artist. I am...IT!
"Judy, if I had to do it all over again I would race cars. Nextel Cup. Nothing less."
"You have a bad day, dear," she said. "Truck running late...breakdown...rejection."
"I'm serious," I said. "You'd love it, too. The television camera's on us as we're walking hand in hand to my car before the start of the race...I'm the favorite...The camera's on you in the pit, praying, screaming, crying as I cross the finish line to win the Daytona 500."
"You did, didn't you," she said. "Somebody have an accident?"
"No," I said. "But it was bad."
When I was a kid I thought I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle (along with Billy Crystal and the majority of Little Leaguers in 1962). Thinking...knowing...I was going to be the next Mickey Mantle made it easier to tolerate Mrs. Lawson's incessant screaming at me in seventh grade history class for not studying and constantly daydreaming about becoming the next Mickey Mantle. I was listening to the Yankees game against the Kansas City Athletics on May 23, 1963 when Mantle hit a prodigious home run off KC's Bill Fischer. The ball was still rising when it hit the upper deck facade in right field, missing by six feet being the only fair ball hit out of Yankee Stadium. "I can do that, Mrs. Lawson!" I screamed. Better yet, I was going to one-up Mantle. I was going to be the first ballplayer to hit a fair ball OUT of Yankee Stadium! At that time I was an athletic, five-foot five-inch, one hundred twenty pound twelve- year-old. I was whacking HRs every day in Little League. I didn't need to study.
When I graduated high school I was five-seven and weighed one hundred forty pounds.
Forty years after the Mantle epiphany, after realizing I am not endowed with enough genes to hit a golf ball out of Yankee Stadium, and after admitting Mrs Lawson was right, I should have studied, I have mellowed. My daydreams are now tempered with a healthy dose of reality. (Although I do believe I have racing genes in me. Nextel Cup. Nothing less.) Late trucks, breakdowns, rejections, and accidents now generate dreams of simple pleasures and unfufilled goals. A simpler lifestyle in a different climate. A retooling of my limited skills. Being IT is not important. Being me is.
"Judy, I've got it!"
"Another bad day, dear."
"I'm serious! You'll love it, too. Let's move to Key West and open a restaurant. Something small with a limited menu. Eight or ten tables. Gourmet macaroni dishes a specialty. Macaroni and broccoli, macaroni and cauliflower, macaroni and red kidney beans, macaroni and peas. All with or without hot peppers. We could fly in celebrity chefs or randomly select a male or female who loves to cook to be our chef for a day. And I will sit on top of the bar in a Hawaiian shirt, drink Coronas all day, and greet customers from all over the world."
"It was a bad day, wasn't it?"
"Real bad...real bad."
The Highway Reporter
posted by The Highway Reporter at 8:55 PM
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