Growing up is full of ironic idiosyncrasies.

As children, we cannot wait to grow-up to be able to indulge in adult like behaviors and privileges. As adults, we are forever trying to recapture our youthful appearance. As children, we believe adults have it all together, however, it seems the psychological Louis Vuitton baggage just keeps piling on as we get trampled on, tested, develop issues and discover medication. As children, we imagine the world innocently and believe in good, the kindness of people and perceive evil as the wicked witch or Gargamel. As adults, we observe the world with a discerning and judgmental eye, but wish for the complexities and proclivities of our collective gestalt to just melt into “why can’t we just get along” simplicities. As children we feel our rights invaded when we are ordered to bed rather than feed our need to discover the mysteriousness of nightly activities. As adults, we beg for a good night sleep and seek the aid of Ambien CR.

My mother always gave me a hard time for picking my nose. I admit it. I like it. Now as an adult, well, somewhat of an adult, I understand the social graces and etiquette of deplorable, acceptable, and exemplary courtesies, but somehow, I am encouraged to keep the innocent ignorance and wonderful discovery phase of my younger days.

I went to the ballet yesterday to catch a Holiday stereotype: the Nutcraker, lovingly referred to as the butt-cracker by fellow musicians. I was whisked away to a land where I suspended reality to dialogue with the Snow Queen, the Nutcracker Prince, the King Rat, the Sugar Plum Fairy, not to mention the athletic Trepak Russian dancer. My first reaction was to snap a shot of the stage (prior to the performance of course) and uploaded to Facebook with a funny quotation: dare me to go up and dance?

Do you ever wonder why some distant memories creep up on you? Something you perhaps had not given much attention at the time, or ever, all of a sudden has significance and meaning?

I must have been 10 or 11. At school, they brought a production of Giselle. I remember it clearly as there was a girl in my class by the same name. I was perplexed as to why they named a ballet after her. Seriously, could “Joel” or “Joelle” be a tragic story of forbidden love, quest, conquest and death? Most importantly, I was sitting next to my friend Debbie Radzinsky (with whom I reconnected in Toronto, and now on Facebook) who capriciously said quietly “one day, would you like to be able to be on stage and dance like that?”

So I am 34, and although I have wicked rhythm and consider myself acceptable on the dance floor, I can say goodbye to the possibility of an arabesque, a fouette, a plie, a grand jete, or any other sexy delicious French terms that make me giggle when I attempt to say them. Pucker up your lips. Try them.

One of my teachers at some point taught me that vivid and perceived imagination is much more powerful that actuality. So why not? Why do we have to stop ourselves from dreaming, imagining and picturing that maybe one day? Maybe in the next life? Perhaps in a previous life?

Go ahead. Pick your nose.