I used to daydream.
What I wanted to be when I grew up. Where I wanted to go. Who I wanted to be.
Like, in first grade, I wanted to be Dorothy Hamill.
Then I went ice skating and realized it was nothing like roller skating.
After falling on my butt a hundred times, I came to the conclusion that crap was harder than it looked, the Dorothy hairstyle made me look like a dork, and since I was well into my “chubby” phase of life, the leotards were not that flattering on me.
That dream went up in smoke faster than you can say Cheech and Chong.
Other dreams came and went.
Being picked to be in a music video…like Courtney Cox in that Bruce Springsteen video?
Yeah, that would be my one way ticket out of this one horse town.
Or being a Fly Girl on in Living Color?
But yet again, reality slapped me across the face when I realized I would never have a J Lo booty and my dance skills looked like a cat having a seizure.
So, I lowered the bar.
I came up with a dream that required absolutely no talent, just luck.
I started playing the lottery. Playing mainly when the Lotto reached gazillions of dollars.
Cause who wants to just win a mil? After taxes, it’s like nothing. I needed big money to fulfill my dreams.
Big house, big pool, cabana.
Yeah, having a pool boy was my ticket.
Finding the right pool boy would be my only dilemma.
And so after watching Ricky Martin sing Livin’ La Vida Loca at the Grammys years ago, I had my cabana boy picked out.
Dark, tall, handsome.
He could sing me songs while he was slathering me with oil.
Today, Ricky announced he was living his life as a “fortunate homosexual man.”
And though I’m happy for him, my dream has died.
I am 38 and have no hope for a Latin pool boy.
Rico has promised to sport a banana hammock and fan me with palm leaves when my winning ticket comes in,but it’s just not the same.
R.I.P Ricky the Pool Boy.