I wish I could dance like that kid with the near disjointed neck down front near the twins in the Peanuts Christmas special. It’s not a big dream or something I obsess about but it would be nice. I’d have something cool to do on a dance floor besides my usual stiff shuffling Frankenstein-like grooveless shuffle that has become my signature, and only, dance move.
I wish I was a bit more musically inclined. When I sing my wife likes to point out that every once in a while I occasionally hit an actual note. Of course it might not be a note in the song I am attempting to sing but that has never stopped me from letting loose and belting out a tune. Back a million years ago when I had to sing a solo in my cheesy High School theatre production of Damn Yankees, Mr. Clark, our slightly rotund but not particularly jolly with me, music teacher kept punching me in the upper abdomen in an attempt to get me to find the higher notes I needed to hit. It kinda helped get me in the vicinity but I could have spent a round with Mike Tyson in his prime hammering away just below my ribs and I still would not have consistently hit the right notes. As usual I compensated for my lack of actual real talent by just hammed it up through the show’s three night run.
I wish I could really play an instrument well. My suspect musical acumen does not just apply to my vocal skills. The one night in my life I sat behind a drum kit, I proved far more successful at staining a cymbal with jalapeno pepper juice than actually sustaining a consistent beat. I know a few chords on the guitar; I’m just not particularly good at moving from one to another unless the music has a silent bar or two between the changes. In school I was assigned to play the upright tuba. I assume that was because I was one of the few kids big enough to carry it and not because they thought I was an oom-pa-pa oom-pa-pa prodigy. Maybe that’s why, much to wife’s chagrin, I not so secretly love polka music.
I wish the pores on my nose did not constantly look like a child’s connect the dots puzzle. Maybe it’s not manly man-ish and more metrosexual than I would ordinarily admit to, but it is obvious to me and well, kinda gross. I try scrubbing and poking and prodding but seconds after a mass exfoliation, my nose pores always look as gunked up as the arteries of a 300 pound 65 year old sedentary bacon lover on the way to a quadruple by-pass operation. I have even tried using those little white tape strips; in my head I envisioned after peeling it off my nose the used strip having a little petrified dirt/pus forest on it, but instead it looked more like a gritty desert with the occasional sweat oasis. I remember as a kid seeing a stainless steel blackhead remover tool. Do they still make those? Do they work? Is having one creepier than just leaving the damn blemish alone?
I wish I had the unlimited time and funds to endlessly travel the world. I think I could be a damn good professional bon vivant or raconteur. Scuba diving in Tahiti, skiing the Alps, soaking in a New Zealand natural hot spring. I imagine waking up in a mountainside Monaco cottage overlooking the Mediterranean just in time to catch a jet out of Nice to meet my buddies for brunch in Bruges. I’d rub elbows with the beautiful people by day and the cutting edge bohemians all night sucking in every last drop of unlimited enjoyment available at my beck and call.
I have a lot more wishes but the reality is I’m happy with my nice little life. I also realize as I get older my wishes tame down and get a bit more mundane. Instead of wishing for world peace or immortality for those I love, I wish my allergies would get better and my vision no worse. I wish I had less assorted unexplainable aches and pains. I wish my memory was stronger so I could recall more things that I wish for. And I wish I still had my childhood boundless optimism that truly believed all my wishes would eventually come true.