I have been known to be very
unrealistic when it comes to things that I say I want to do in this life. And, admittedly, I know that as soon as the
words start to come out of my mouth, I already have zero intentions of actually
doing them. These things are not
unrealistic to other people, but I could write a book about how NOT to achieve
your dreams. You just have to fail in
your mind before you even try. It’s
easy. For instance, when I say, “Someday
I’d like to be a travel writer,” I know this won’t ever happen because I
frequently get lost in my own neighborhood…where I grew up. I also wait terrified for food poisoning to
set in after I eat anything remotely different from the norm, and I have to
drink a whole bottle of wine before I board an airplane. Anyway, this got me thinking about
unrealistic expectations and where they come from; and today, it all became
crystal clear.
This afternoon, my mother and I sat
across from each other eating flounder francaise from the Valentine’s Day early
bird menu at a restaurant where a tan, wrinkly man in a tuxedo stands on a
stage and croons Frank Sinatra to a couple of bar flies in the middle of the
day (who knows, maybe he’s living his dream, and if so, I commend him. He’s fairing better than I). But, whenever my mother and I get together,
she finds it necessary to tell me which career path I should be on, and every
time we get together, I am a little bit older and a little bit closer to these
options hitting their expiration date.
Once, I mentioned that I liked sea lions and she said that I should get
a job working with them at Sea World. I
live in Pennsylvania with my two kids, I’ve never even seen a sea lion in real
life, and I’m positive I would suffocate in a wetsuit. Today, she looked at me straight faced and
said, “I know what you should do. You
should be a weather girl. On TV.” I let out a heavy sigh and poked around at
the sad, soggy fish on my plate and said, “Mom.” I thought that would be enough to stop her in
her tracks because do I need to explain?
Yes. Yes, I do. “I’m serious, Sheleen. They make really good money.” I set down my fork and leaned in. “Mom, I’m 35.
I’m also not a meteorologist, nor have I ever even entertained the idea
of becoming one or had any interest in the weather at all. And anyway, I’m pretty sure you need big
boobs to get that job.” Complete lack of
education and experience aside, she argued the boob part. Have I seen so and so’s boobs on such and
such channel? My boobs are fine. They’re totally qualified for the job.
I pacified my mother by telling
her, “Fine, I’ll look into it. I’ll go
home, put on a decent bra, and practice fluid arm movements in front of my wall
like a professional.” She nodded her
approval and I realized that this is where my unrealistic expectations come
from. They are born out of my mother’s
belief that I can do anything, and while I pity her for that, I also bask in
that glow of non-reality. We finished
our wine, paid the check, and on our way out, I asked Frank Sinatra’s impersonator
if he knew the song “Stormy Weather”, and he knew it well.
