“Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.” Here’s a quote I got from my friend Jenn’s Facebook status. I can hear a collective wistful sigh of agreement from people over 25. Not that I’m not happy right now, because I am, but I can’t help remembering those old dreams. I was going to be a writer - you know, the kind that donned dreary colors all the time (like a black turtleneck, hee), guzzled strong black coffee, wore thick coke bottle glasses, clackety clacked at a typewriter at some ungodly hour (like, I dunno, 12:30 am), and live like a beatnik in Greenwich Village. Of course, I do write – after a fashion and I wear black – because it’s slimming and I’ve gotten dumpy through the years. I drink tea instead of coffee, have 20/20 vision, and use a computer that doesn’t make a satisfactory clacking noise (and the ungodly hours have lost all sense of romance as far as I’m concerned). As far as being a beatnik is concerned, hey, let’s all have cheerful, shallow thoughts! And I prefer the country to the city now (most of the time). In college, the dream asked for a little bit more glamour. Hello, I was studying French and I thought I would be doing a UN gig. I would be living in New York, going to embassy parties, having hotel dinners, applying for membership in various wine clubs (because, you know, le vin est très cosmopolite, n’est-ce pas?), and jetting off to Paris at a drop of a hat. Well, as you know, I ended up teaching and I loved it. Later, I gave up that career to concentrate on family and home. I have dreams of still pursuing the writing thing, but I don’t want to write the great novel anymore. I’d rather write pretty little stories for children. As you can see, I don’t stay wistful too long.