The Dreamer In Me

I started working when I was fifteen. As far as first jobs go, this was a great one. I worked at a Hallmark store. I fully enjoyed working there. My paycheck pretty much went to the store. Even from a young age I was a very proud individual. I swore I would NEVER work for McDonalds. I always thought I was better than that. Pompous, I know. I loved the precious moments figurines, the stationary, the journals, the albums and all the knick knacks. The greeting cards were the best.

My favorite part of the job was organizing the greeting cards at night. I spent most of the time reading them, imaging that someone had given me that perfect card that sounded like it was written just for me. 

 Eventually I started collecting greeting cards. Any card that I wish someone would buy for me, I ended buying myself.

I have my father to thank for my greeting card obsession. He is the most thoughtful man I know. Ever since I was a little girl he would send me greeting cards for every occasion, not just my birthday. He did the same for my mom. For many years my mom and I lived apart from my dad so we weren't able to share all holidays together. I appreciated every single card he ever sent me. Once in a while I would open my box of cards and start reading them. Over the years I have lost that whimsy part of me. I even threw away most of the greeting cards.  I have heavily shifted away from my idealistic demeanor into the harsh reality that is life. Once a while I wonder about what happened to the dreamer in me. The reveal of reality is something I like to shy away from. Heck, I use to run away from it as fast as I could. After more than ten years I just can longer run nor hide from it. Sometimes on a clear night, I catch a glimpse of my dreamer self and it brings tears to my eyes.