It was a dismal and rainy day. The roads flooded with people who can't drive, and the stores filled with Black Friday leftovers. A nightmare come to life.
I pass through the isles with care, focusing on my mediocre grocery list, avoiding those who appear disgruntled about everything. I came to the realization that I don't want to become one of "those people". You know, those that had big dreams, but let them pass by, leaving them wallowing in a cesspool of self-pity. I can't let that happen.
I can't be the only person who stands in line daydreaming about the future, or skimming through the tabloids wondering what someone would write about me. I'm not a perfect individual, so I'm almost positive any number of things could be used out of context. But do I really want to be that famous where someone is rummaging through my garbage in the middle of the night? Hell yeah I do.
My daydreams aren't as simple as big fat royalty checks, or my own reality tv show. But I would like to have enough of a name for myself where I can live comfortably, and not have to clip coupons for my groceries, or get that excited for the fuel points I earned. But getting paid for what I love to do would be a dream come true.
I know I could be like others that go shopping in their pajamas, wearing the sadness as an accessory, and carrying a matching bag with their Uggs. But I have a serious allergy to regret. The only cure for such an infliction is a shot of courage, the most natural way to combat the fear of failure. I just don't want to become that little old lady sitting on my porch rocking in my rickety chair daydreaming of what could've been. Coulda, woulda, shoulda are not in my vocabulary.
The drive home feels almost as mechanical as the vehicle I'm operating. I watch the traffic pass me by, I stop at all the red lights, and when they turn green I move on. And almost in a daze I continue on my drive home. Even though I know where home is, it's still the journey to arrive that's always changing. Any number of things could happen between here and there, but in the end, the path remains the same.
I arrive home to the excited sounds of my children greeting me at the door. They argue as to who's going to help me bring in my parcels, and to whom will help put it away. The familiar scent of pets and that garbage that needs to be taken out hits me in the face before I have a chance to set my things on the kitchen counter. My tattered furniture no longer looks inviting no matter how tired I am, or how sore my feet are. But my budget can't allow for such a luxury of springs that won't stab you, or the wood frame poking out the back that seems to catch my hip every time I walk by. I could try and dress up the couch with a slip-cover to hide the remnants of leather that my children have yet to pick off, but even that can't cover the strange odor.
I could keep dreaming of the day I finally make it big, or I can play the lottery. Either one seems to me like the cowards way out. I'm going to keep doing things the old fashioned way and work for what I want in life. And I want to go shopping without Uggs, sit on furniture that doesn't sag, and avoid wearing pajamas in public simply because I don't care. I want to be that little old lady in her rocking chair sharing stories, turning the pages to old photographs, and showing off what a dish I used to be once upon a time. I know it seems a little far-fetched, but I'm going to dream big anyway.