Let’s talk about dreams.

Not the kind we have when we’re sleeping that, when recounting to our friends and family the next day, makes them tune us out.

No, let’s talk about the dreams that keep us alive by taking us somewhere far away from where we really are. The ones that permeate our head when we’re trying not to fall asleep during Sociology 101 in university. The dreams that fill our hearts and help us aspire to something bigger.

The focus of my dreams has varied from the whimsical to the not so out of reach. I’ve dreamed about what it would be like to have a pet lion and a pet eagle at the same time. I’ve also dreamed about what would happen if my current crush and I were the only two people to inhabit the earth. (Answer: We’d have a lot of sex everywhere.)

For the sake of this blog, I’m going to focus on the one dream that I’ve had since I was a teenager: For as long as I could write relatively well, I have dreamed of being a columnist. And recently, that dream came true.

This isn’t a unique dream for a writer. Everyone I know who puts words on page for a living wants to be a columnist. It’s the most prime gig you can get. On a regularly basis, an allotted spot on a blank page is devoted to YOU and YOUR voice. A column is basically the kingdom for your ego to reside.

Last fall, a friend who writes a column for the Metro asked if I’d like to take over while she took a few months off. Holy shit! Talk about a dream coming true! I eagerly agreed and got in touch with the editor. They asked me to do a mock entry, which the editor liked and I was told to file my first story within a week, along with a headshot.

Oh! A photo! My (admittedly pretty attractive) face would be accompanying my words in a publication that gets 500,000 eyeballs a day. What a thrill.

The week leading up to my first column entry was a busy one. I’d just returned from New York and had a pile of deadlines that needed taking care of. By the time I was to file my first entry, I’d completely forgotten about the photo I was suppose to submit alongside it, which I’d planned on getting a professional photographer friend to take. So, in a stressed and somewhat depressed state, I submitted this one, taken on my Mac’s photo booth:

So, my eyebrows could benefit from a plunk and my hair could use a comb, though I kind of like the ruffled, day-the-beach-look. But messy hair aside, I thought the photo was neutral enough to pass as my first column photo. I submitted it without much more thought. Here’s how it looked in the paper:

When I started posting links to my column on Facebook, I got a lot of great feedback. Then, people started commenting on the photo that accompanied my words.

“You’re a lot more photogenic than that photo.”

“That photo doesn’t do your pretty face justice”

“Do you want me to retake that photo for you? Really, I insist.”

I was starting to realize that my ego’s kingdom was slowly being destroyed by what I had failed to see as an undoubtedly ugly photo of myself.

The comments continued.

“You look like a crackhead! A pretty one though.”

“The only thing missing is a big hairy wart.”

OK! I GET IT! My column photo is ugly.

My dream of having my voice heard by probably the largest amount of people it’s ever been able to reach was largely overshadowed by the fact that I look like a varmint that lives in a humid sewer. When I used to dream about having a column, this wasn’t how it played out in my head.

My friend is now back from her extended vacation and I’m handing back the column to her, so grateful for the experience and exposure. I’ll miss walking on the subway, looking around and seeing at least a dozen strangers of different races, ages and backgrounds, reading a paper that I’ve contributed to.

Too bad the majority of them probably looked at my picture and thought, “Dude, that girl’s a dog.”

Here’s to dreams coming true.

Hi reader. I want to hear all about your dreams coming true. Email me as usual at write@eliannalev.com, or leave a message below or on Facebook or wherever you like to catch me. Oh, and while we’re at it, please click here  to LIKE the shit out of I’m a Good Story on Facebook. 

Last week, I got to cross something off my bucket list. But before I get to that, let me stress that every time I hear this particular idiom, I think of that movie from a few years ago starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. You might remember it. It was called “The Bucket List” and it was about two veteran actors who once had dignity and an impressive body of work, and the journey they took to temporarily nullify all that.

Here’s the poster. It looks like Morgan is sitting on Jack’s knee.

The film was distributed around the world in many different languages.  In Turkey, the film’s title was translated to: “Now or Never,” and in Korea it was a little more literal: “Things you Want to do Before Dying.” My personal favourite was Japan’s translation: “How to Find the Greatest Life.” The Japanese are such cheery people.

So yeah. Last week I got to experience something big that I wanted to do at least once before dying.

I’ve been compiling these kinds of lists and goals since a very young age. My first list had three points on it: 1. Learn how to tie my shoelaces the adult way (not the bunny ears way)
2. Learn how to ride a two-wheeler
3. Go on a rollercoaster.

I made that list when I was seven. It took me about five years to cross them all off.

Into my late teens and early twenties, these lists took a different turn. They started focusing on the types of guys I wanted to date or bed. It started with a musician. A successful one. It took a few months, but eventually I met, and fell in love with a musician. About two months after we started dating, he got signed to a popular indie label and went on to be quite popular.

Thinking back to what compelled me to want to date a musician, I realize now that I was more drawn to the lifestyle than to the partnership. It feels good to be with someone who’s adored by people all around the world, being interviewed for high profile magazines and TV shows, getting free shit, going to amazing parties, and generally living a life that most normal people would never get a taste of.  But I realized early on that while I was attached to this person, I didn’t have that much access to his lifestyle.

I found myself longing to live like him, though I had very few means to do so. I was starting my career as a writer working at a community paper. I wrote about things like board of education budget meetings and the annual citywide palm tree count

Meanwhile, he was going to Grammy parties and opening for No Doubt. He was so clearly living his bucket list. I was so desperately envious.

After we broke up, my list continued to focus on the type of guy I wanted to date, always based on his career. And so, I dated (in this order) an animator, an artist, a (retired) professional skateboarder, a comedian, a comedian, and a comedian. None of them have worked out.

After the last comedian, I decided to shift the focus of my lists back to goals that involved me and my life. The very first thing on that list was to fly first class.

Flying is exciting to me. It’s also incredibly uncomfortable. I desperately wanted to experience what it was like to fly in style some time before I died.

Last week, I was flown to Toronto for an assignment. My flight was first class both ways. On the way there, it was pod seating, where your chair reclines and you don’t sit next to anyone. It was really incredible. I slept comfortably for the first time on a plane. They addressed me as Ms. Lev and fed me warm cookies and ice cream. I had the option between an omelet and banana bread French toast (I choose the omelet, which tasted like upscale airplane food.) There were full-length mirrors in the bathrooms. I felt like I’d arrived. I had somehow found the way, as the Japanese would say, to have the greatest life. It felt really good.

However, my return flight was quite different. There were no pods, just seats, which were only slightly bigger than coach. I wasn’t hungry but ate my dinner and the warm cookies and ice cream they served me on principle – I wanted to take advantage of every aspect of first class.  The plane had terrible turbulence that made me vomit in the first class bathroom. I sheepishly told the stewards that I’d clogged the sink. That feeling that I’d arrived at? It didn’t take too long to disappear.

Coming off the plane, nauseous and sticky, I realized that while there might be something significant to having the dream, there’s definitely something more to living the reality.

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I want to know what’s on your list of things you want to do before you die. Please email me at write@eliannalev.com or leave a comment below.