Catnapped and Doggone
Catnapped and Doggone
If I couldn’t write … yikes. You have to imagine that in the event I could not compose witty repartee among my imaginary friends and their cohorts that I would exhibit a modicum of some other talent. There are numerous individuals, including many of the prodigious talents who share this blog with me, who could put down their pen, pick up a paintbrush or a spatula and continue to be called artistes. I am not one of them. So go with me on this. Pretend, or think in fictitious terms if you’d rather, that my abilities are not confined to the written page like a convicted serial murderer to Super-Max.
If my fairy Godmother grants me a talent wish and sprinkles me with magic dust, I would be an acrobat with Cirque du Soleil’s Love in Las Vegas. Pretty specific there, aren’t I? And limited. A special one night only performance of Gabi the Gumby in a spotlit special appearance. Not for me the decades of fame enjoyed by Frank Sinatra. No way would I sign up for Mikhail Baryshnikov’s voluminous resume. Too visible, too much pressure, too many chances to toss my reputation away with a single misstep or off-key note. I just want one chance to twist gracefully from a blue silk ribbon hanging from a fifty foot ceiling. I want to arch and bend and twist my way delicately swinging over the heads and open mouths of an awed audience of otherwise jaded Vegaphiles. I dream of skipping through a silver hoop as my compatriots roller skate up vertical inclines to flip within a hair’s breadth of my elevate perch.
In my imagination, I can origami my limbs like a boneless Chinese acrobat. I can fly through the air with the grace of a dove. I can swing with more style than a Zoot-suit club kid. My toes point, my back bends, my arms delicately slice through air pounding to classic Beatles refrains.
If this is non-fiction, I am taking solace in the fact that the music will drown my scream as I crash to the ground. The splat of my body will be greeted with a laugh of appreciation reserved for the slapstick humor of a French-based circus. My blood splatter will match the psychedelic splashes of color on the sets worthy of Maurice Sendak. Except I’m smart enough, and lack adequate insurance, to have ever left the ground in the first place.
Don’t you hate it when reality gets in the way of your dreams? Gotta run. Off to my aerial class. So I’m not young. I’m not flexible. I’m ten years older than anyone in my class and while they spend their days as personal trainers and professional dancers, I ride a desk and scare lawyers with the threat of paper cuts. None of that matters. If this writing thing doesn’t work out, I’ll need a plan B.