So you wanna be a.....
Statia writes about a guy who makes his living diving for golf balls (she saw it on this show). He sells them after giving a percentage back to the golf course, and Statia seems to think that this guy makes about 200k a year doing this; he does retrieve over a million balls a year.
Obviously, this guy didn't have to pass an interview to get this job. He didn't need a high school/college/trade school diploma. He doesn't have to join a union, attend meetings and rallies, undergo a performance evaluation or clock in and out. He just throws on his flippers and goes ball-diving.
Imagine if you could have any job if you want. If you could just get out of bed one day and be greeted by the career fairy who will grant you one job-related wish. She waves her wand, utters a few incantations and poof! You now have your dream job.
I always wanted to be one of those people who comes up with new ice cream flavors for Baskin Robbins or Ben and Jerry's. I want to sit around a table that's loaded down with toppings and confections and fruit and shout Eureka! Chocolate Bubble Gum Cashew is our next big hit! We'll call it.....BrownBubbleNuts!
I wanted to be a million outrageous things. A Zamboni driver. A professional video game tester. The person who sits down in a celebrity's seat at the Oscars when someone like Tom Cruise has to take a leak.
One time I had this idea that I would make fake travel albums for people who hate to travel, like me. Say you have a fear of planes, trains or automobiles, or you just hate leaving your house. You just tell me where you would go if you weren't so agraphobic and I would make a scrapbook as if you had been there, with all the relevant brochure material that one would acquire upon such a trip. It seemed like a good idea at the time (I was twelve) but my mother decided I would be better off spending my time doing fractions and decimals and get your head out of your ass, Michele, and into reality.
For a time I thought I could be the GM of a hockey team (after all, I wouldn't have made those stupid trades) or the manager of the Yankees (I would know better than to leave a pitcher in that long) or even the person who sits in that little booth at the end of the ice and turns on the red light and the sirens and whistles when a team scores.
It would be very cool to be a magician, I suppose, but I lack the magic skills to pull that off and I don't look very good in a cape. It would be even twice as cool to be a Fun and Games Director for a cruise line, but that fear of water I have could be a detriment. It would be even three times as cool to be syndicated columnist, where I could write whatever I want, make it as long or short as I want, on any topic I feel like taking on. But, alas, I do that for free every day.
Of course, the one dream job I always wanted was the one you probably wanted as well. Rock Star.
Is there anything so glamorous, so thrilling and so self-indulgent as being an icon adored by people the world over? Groupies knocking at your hotel room door, flowers thrown at your feet, underwear strewn about the stage, the pulsing rythmn of your band ringing in your ears, the scream from the crowd as they chant your name over and over, the kids rushing the stage, holding out the latest Spin magazine with you on the cover and reporters asking if you are really dating that superstar and....
Oh, sorry. Got a bit carried away there.
Anyhow, I'll stick to my day job, which really isn't such a bad one, but I'll go on trying to invent new ice cream flavors just for the hell of it.
Vodka Tonic Sherbert, anyone?