Where's That Time machine When You Need It?

One of my girls, when she was little, used to say she was going to be a psychiatrist when she grew up. When I asked her, some years later, why she had said that, she told me it was the smartest profession she could think of. In other words, she wanted you to know that she was going to be smart. And now she is. She didn't actually become a psychiatrist, of course, but she could frequently use one. (Right here, if she were writing this about me, she would add "hee hee.") Hee hee. I think it was that early declaration and a great deal of determination that made her the smart girl, er, woman she is. Well, that and good genetics, I suppose. So you have to be careful about what you say. You never know what path it may lead you down.

There I was, standing at my locker putting back one book or another or maybe reaching for my sack lunch when a member of the high school yearbook staff came walking up with a pen and pad in hand. "Filling out your profile" she says. "You know, for the yearbook."

"Okay," I responded, smiling goofily. This was a pretty girl I was talking to afterall, and mustering any kind of speech was a small miracle when one of them was looking at you.

"What do you want to know?" was the best I could manage next.

"What are you going to be, like, you know, after this?"

The question took me by surprise. I had never really given it any thought. I wanted to be the next Bob Petit, my favorite basketball player, but he was 6'9", so I figured I'd settle for being the next Bob Cousy. That wasn't the kind of thing you would say out loud though and you definetly didn't want it under your picture in the yearbook. Your buddies would razz you to death. I just stood there kind of blank, not knowing what to say, looking, I'm sure, like the dunce I was certain this real smart girl in front of me thought I was. And then the bell rang giving my sports crazed mind the instant realization that I was saved by it. I bolted for my next class.

"Hey," the yearbook journalist hollered after me, "You gotta give me something."

"Put down" I shouted back. " Put down... writer." It was the smartest thing I could think of.

Well I never did become the next Bob Cousy. Turns out I needed a few more inches of height, about 20 more pounds of weight and a lot better left hand dribble. I could shoot with him though. And I never really wrote much for money, either, just a little here and there. There seldom seemed enough time. What I am certain of now though, certain as death, taxes and my jump shot, is that the reason I'm sitting here putting one word after another on a daily basis, dates back to that impromptu, out of the blue moment back in the halls of LHS. When I go back in my time machine, I'm going to shout, "Rock Star" or "Movie Star" or, wait, I've got it... "Pro Golfer."

That's all for today. I've got to go work on my left hand dribble.