Recognizing the Romance

Lately, I have come to the conclusion that I am too romantic for my own good. It is bothersome at times. Picture me in the middle of a serious conversation with the friendliest of friends. They say ONE word that triggers an idea and I am off. Baking pie becomes a memory of  a Smuckers commercial and me wondering how long frozen berries keep their antioxidents in a freezer. Going for a run leaves me with a vision of a tall lovely woman gliding through a perfectly-paved sidewalk in a picturesque town. Some people call this ADD, I call it attention to possible idealic situations.
Friend: "so, I just wasn't sure. I mean, a honeymoon to NYC would be so awesome, but I was thinking somewhere more private, secluded. Like a beach or a country house."

Me: "Yeah, but can you imagine how beautiful it would be during the holidays?

My mind: Are you kidding?! NYC in the Fall would be the cat's pajamas! They could take bike rides or walks down to the local coffee shop and sit and read books, or they could walk around central park --they could roller blade!  They could dress up and go to the theatre and go out for wine after. They could buy flowers from a flower stand and put them in a cracked ceramic mug back at the apartment. They could go ice skating, they could explore the streets and pretend to be a newly engaged couple at Tiffany's just to gawk at the rings. They could go back to the apartment and watch old movies and order chinese and eat from those little white boxes. They would have to buz the delivery boy from the intercom thingy in the apartment- fun! I have always wanted to do that. He arrives. "A-woah. I hev a chineese foowd dewiverwy." excitedly jump up to push the button. act nonchalant. "Ahem. Uh, yeah, okay, come on up." Push hair back. Apply chapstick. Smooth clothing. He is your first delivery boy, after all.

I realize this is is more like a "girls weekend" than it is a honeymoon, but humor me.

I just really like to see the beauty and potential in things that I know nothing about.

Sometimes I like to imagine myself as a witty writer for a big time magazine. In my fantasy, I am the columnist who knows she could never compete with the sports journalist or the political reporter. Understated magic happens within the confines of my cubicle. I am just me. I sit at an old wooden desk with coffee rings tatooed along its surface. I wear a simple cream-colored button up with a high-wasited pencil skirt that allows me to breathe even after my lunch of a mushroom and goat cheese sandwhich. I am wearing my glasses (because staring at a screen just asks for dry eyes). My hair is in a messy bun. I only wear chapstick and mascera, as I know I could never compete with the red lips and apple-blush cheeks of the voluptuous blonde next to me. I am generally the underdog. I sneak wit and charisma into my columns like a mother does spinach into a child's smoothie. They taste it. They lick the bowl clean and smile. They ask for more. I give them a sideways smile and respond with "of course, if that is what you like." They offer me a cigar. They watch, expectantly, while I take a puff and dangle it between my fingers like a pro. I lazily keep it in my hand while I feign indifference. My lungs are screaming. I tell them to "shut it, you aren't in Anderson anymore." I continue with my work while the blonde next to me tells me I have crumbs on my blouse.

I think this has been largly influenced by recent television shows such as Ugly Betty, which I promise I have never seen, just only envisioned as the type of show I would hate. Perhaps I should rethink my fantasy.

Potential -- it doesn't have to be recognized to be there.

Other times, I own a healthy bakery. My lifestyle is reflected in the whole grains and herby-ness of my breads and muffins. All the dishes are handmade pottery by my artistic friends whom I pay in baked goods and cast-off clothing. The walls are a deep red and dressed with old photos and original pieces of art. The bakery is right in the middle of the city, as far away as possible from China town. It is next to a florist and a tattoo parlor-- worlds collide. It smells eternally of coffee beans and flour. The floors are recycled wooden planks from an old dance studio. The ceilings have wood beams from which lanterns from all over the world hang. There are old black bookcases filled with books. I assembled the bookcases myself and so they lean to the right andI always have to make sure the weight of the books are evenly distributed in order to prevent a catastrophe. I make lattes and spike steamed milk with expresso and caramel. I drizzle honey on whole wheat bread and serve it with peanut butter to old ladies. I wear an apron that I purposely spilled flour on because black aprons look better with flour particles swiped across the front. People come to me asking if I have anything "gluten-free, diary free and vegan." I smile, and hand them a mug of tea. Poor souls. I refuse to make my food adapt to the fashions of society. Next week, they will be asking me if I have anything without fat. I will direct them to my skinny baker who is so sick of looking at bread all day that he has resorted to only eating salad and fruit. He will probably ask for their number and then I will have to hire a new baker.

Potential -- it doesn't have to adapt to expectations

So this is my mind. This is what I think about when I am not so overly swamped with my "to do's" of the day week month. I suppose, in a way, I am not only a romantic, but also a dreamer of posibilities. I will probably never live in NYC. I would love to be a columnist, but most likely won't. I for sure won't own a bakery...I don't think.
But, I can imagine, I can play, and I can, in some ways, sort through my desire for a future calling by thinking about what my wildest dreams all have in common with one another. I think there must be some creaky old wooden floors in my future. Either that, or blouses with crumbs on them.