My mother dreamed of one day dancing with Fred Astaire - and did nothing whatsoever about it.
I mean, honestly. You don't see me dreaming of one day having a whole book out with just my name on it
(and I do mean my name, and not that of the other Mary Keenan who lives in my town and is also a writer and does have a whole book out with just her name on it)
and then just sitting around knitting or sewing heating pad covers or eating chocolate, do you?
Oh, right.
Well, as long as we're setting goals doomed to be unattained, I will publicly state my dream of one day going shopping with Patricia Marx.
Have you ever read any of her shopping articles for The New Yorker? She is such a good writer, and so witty, and what an eye for cool stuff. Shopping lost its charms for me back when I noticed I was living in an already-full, tiny house, but I would leap at the chance to hear all those quips live and in person, while stocking up on a lifetime's worth of material memories.
Meanwhile, one has the consolation of reading those articles, which may not be as good as the real thing, but aren't as hard on one's feet. Much like watching Fred Astaire dance, rather than actually being his partner.
H'mmm. Think maybe my mum was onto something?
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