living the dream, part one

I have the aspiration to write a blog or a book totally uncensored. To throw caution to the wind and with it, silly names such as, "Mr. Baseball," or "Photography Boy." Names conjured up for fear someone will decode my not-so-enigmatic way of coding things to hide my oh so important "identity." Once, thinking I was acting in perfect anonymity, I made a remark on some one's blog. It wasn't someone I know, and it was in response to something I felt strongly about. The comment was rather snarky (for me, at least). As soon as I hit publish, there it was. But the word anonymous, wasn't. In an effort to erase what I'd done, I went "private" for the afternoon. Then, in a to-hell-with-it moment, I thought, what the heck, and unblocked the blogging world. I'm me, mistakes and all. Take it or leave it. Sometimes I'm snarky. So there.

That said, here's the latest edition to the list of people-with-fake-names-on-my-blog. 'Twas the weekend last when I found myself in a conversation with a twenty-something guy who we'll call "Mr. Enthusiastic." (You would too, if you met him. And, as long as I'm getting things out in the open, honestly, I stole that name right out from under someone else who called him that. There are worse things in the world, right?) He's all live-your-dream-Guy-Smiley with hand gestures and eyebrow raises and eyes that won't stop enlarging at the thought of something even mildly enthusiastic or exciting. (For him, taking out the trash could qualify.)

In a hey-there-how-you-doing-isn't-life-SO-fantastic?! moment, he comes up to me and says, "So...tell me your dream. (Cheesy inhale, as if he's trying to sense my chi.) What's. Your. Dream?" After watching him work his way across the room, I couldn't help but play along with the kid, his hands on both my shoulders in utter sincerity. "My dream, huh?" I paused, thoughtfully (playing along, right?) and then gave him a short answer, thinking he'd move along to the next enthusiasm victim. "I'm doing it." I shrugged in the silence. Mr. E took his hands off my shoulders, thus ending my personal space invasion for a brief moment. Just when I thought I had him, there were those eyes again and the gestures and the frightening realization that he was so proud of my response he might shake me silly. If I'd thought about it, I could have scripted this next part, as I think these might be the only four words in his vernacular: "That is absolutely fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!" (Coming from a guy nick-named "Mr. Enthusiastic," I should have known better. I should have known that incredible, awesome, super, extraordinary, etc. --with accompanying hand gestures--can be substituted for the word fantastic at any given moment.) He said something to the effect of "I wish more women could give me that answer," followed by a few more positive adjectives (along the lines of the aforementioned incredible, outstanding, etc.) and then he was off and onto the next are-you-or-are-you-not-living-your-dream? interview.

I have to hand it to him. (Only per se though, cause if I really handed it to him, I'd never actually get that hand back, as he'd be giving me perpetual high-fives until next Tuesday.) I went home that night and started thinking about it. Perhaps in his I'm-so-proud-I-could-gather-all-the-silk-worms-in-the-world-right-now-and-have-them-weave-you-a-golden-ribbon-on-the-spot moment, he shook something in my brain. I mean, I wasn't lying to Mr. Enthusiastic. I'm doing what I've wanted to do since I was seven. But, am I honestly quote-un-quote living the dream? I will tell you one thing, I never, in a million trillion years thought that a Mr. Enthusiastic would be a part of it -- living the dream, or otherwise.