What if . . . the ice cream thing isn’t fun anymore, never mind the ninety nine percent of the time it isn’t a torturous way to spend twelve hours of my limited life span and helps pay the minimum balance due?
What if . . . I miss the days when I felt like I was making a difference, like back when I actually believed I’d realized my dream of being Casey Kasem and made that one listener’s day with my witty banter and “just the right song?”
What if . . . I read of my old pal John and think “I would be good at that?”
What if . . . finding a way to be me, a compassionate, caring, idealistic soul, was something doable, something I could make happen, instead of choosing to just keep on being acted upon and reacting accordingly?
What if . . . rather than being told what to care about, what is important, what drives us to zero, I could choose my own battles, ones worth fighting, and swing away at them with an abandon bordering on joyous recklessness?
What if . . . even as a do my best to be upbeat and to make a difference, even where it seems to profit everyone but me, I looked outside of me and my situation and picked a new landscape to gaze upon, a new field to plow, a new face to brighten?
What if . . . instead of lamenting how it’s too late and all and checked into whether I could finish those two years of Spanish online and actually got my degree, with the major in English and the minors in philosophy and religious studies?
What if . . . I picked up the paper and looked for something else?
What if . . . I didn’t just throw in the towel all the time and wallow in this self-made mire of pity and . . .
What ifs . . .