What did you want to be when you grew up? I wanted to be a flight attendant, a truck driver, a veterinarian and a teacher. None of those things ever came to fruition, but I have never stopped wondering what I could be if I ever grew up.
Sometimes I imagine selling everything to move out to the country and live on a farm. I’d want to have cows and chickens and grow organic food and sell it to people who eat things like wheat grass and chia seeds. I’d have a pasture and a horse, and a big enough yard that Sabbie could run for Frisbees without ripping up our small suburban lawn. The nearest house would be a half mile away, and I’d call them neighbors.
When I told Bubba about this he called me a hippie.
Me: I suppose I would have to stop shaving my legs.
Bubba: I reckon.
Me: Do you think I could keep shaving my pits, or would I have to let that go too?
Bubba: I think that goes along with the gig.
There is always something to discourage me from my big ideas. You can call me a pessimist. I say I’m a realist. A realist with smoothly shaven legs and pits.
Peace . . .