“Sometimes I think that we should move up to Vermont,

Open a bookstore, or a vegan restaurant.”

You know, sometimes I do think that. I’d love to have a bookstore. I was having this conversation with my sister yesterday.

I can just picture myself sipping coffee in a well lit bookstore reading Chuck Palahniuk, and I do love wood finish. But it probably wouldn’t work out. I’d probably pummel anyone who tried to ask me if I stocked Sweet Valley High books or something. Or refuse to sell someone who buys a Barry Manilow CD anything by Pablo Neruda. I’m finicky like that.

But I digress. The thing is, I will never have a life like you see in all the romantic comedies, the New York Life, you know, like one of those pathologically cute metrosexuals who own a bookstore in The Village and have more gay friends than straight. I won’t have that, and sometimes I really wish I could. Really.

The best I can hope for is a medical drama life. That’s not fun. House is miserable, and Angelina Jolie dies at the end of Beyond Borders.

Crap.

Ok, too many TV parallels.

The thing is, I’m not hippie material. I always knew that. Sitting naked on the grass singing Kumbaya is not my idea of fun, and I’m a firm believer in periodic haircuts.

I know I’m not a hippie, but what I’m asking is did I have to be a yuppie? And it’s no use telling me that I’m not.

Young. Upwardly mobile. Well I’m young now. And upwardly mobile? I frigging hope so!

All the books, and all the music I like, and my image of myself, it always made me feel like I was an individual. Not someone in the common herd.

Not me.

Do you ever feel dislocated? Ever feel like you are not you?