Something feels wrong about trying to be a better person. We talk about changing a lightbulb but we really don't do that, rather, we replace it. Come to think of it, most of my life I've wanted to be someone else. A full replacement.
And that's sick!
I used to think that it would be cool to be Babe Ruth or Einstein, but they are both in pretty bad shape right now. So I’ll nix that idea.
Then there was Picasso. Yes, he was some artist, but some of his personal life wasn't very artful, and I'd hate that.
I guess this urge to be someone else is like playing hopscotch and wishing you were playing croquet. Is one game better than another? I don't think so.
So how do I go about life without being engulfed in fantasies and pipe dreams? What does it take to just accept the cards I was dealt?
There are a few parts that couldn't be improved. I'd love the two inches back that I’ve shrunk. I'd love to be the athletic star that B was in high school though I wouldn't want his illness or bum leg. And this list goes on and on.
Someone this morning was saying he wouldn't get married because he only wanted someone he'd be super proud to be seen with. I didn't have the heart to tell him that beauty fades, even with seemingly perfect people.
So the remaining problem: should I get that one wish from a genie—who will I choose to become? Me?