I was ready to record my video job application for the Island Reef Job two weeks ago. I wrote a kick ass script. And rewrote it. Again and again, until it was perfect.

I checked out the competition, watching a few dozen video applications, which caused me to promptly fell asleep. Clearly my video would kick their ass.

I saw people showing off their buff, sleek bodies in swimsuits, as if I were jealous cared. And talking like they are all sorts of more qualified than me with their exotic world travels and EMT/Lifeguard experience.  Finally, I was like, to hell with y’all! You should be scared of me!

Thanks to my marine biology prodigy, I know if a cone snail stings you (if you can call it a sting. It’s more like a tiny harpoon injection) you’re pretty much dead before you even know you’ve been hit. What good is an EMT for that?

I’m all about prevention. I know what one looks like and can instruct you to STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM IT, even though its shell is oh-so-pretty.

What’s more, I know what a blue-ring octopus looks like (it will kill you), a sea snake (kill you!), and a box jelly fish (super kill you!) – all of which are found around Australia. My preventative message is you should pretty much stay the hell out of Australian waters.

Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

I won’t be applying for this dream job.

(can you hear the collective sigh of relief from the competition?)

We were in the car, heading down to Dauphin Island to the aquarium to film my “I got the smarts” segment of the application, when Payton burst into tears.

“I can’t leave Gabby!” (Gabby is his 4-year-old calico cat)

“What are you talking about?”

“We can’t move to Australia for six months! I can’t leave Gabby! Who will take care of our cats? Who will take care of my fish tank? waaaahhhhhh! I just want to visit on vacation, not live there! Waaaaahhhh!”

I swear to god, I need to move to Hollywood instead and have Payton kick Freddie Highmore’s ass at the Oscars because, dramatically speaking, he could.

“But Payton, Grandma would take care of our cats for six months.”

This? Is a total lie. Grandma travels on her job and is gone for two weeks at a time. My sister is mean and cruel to animals, no way would she take them. My dad, well, let’s just say my sister got it from somewhere.

What would we do with our pets?

Parker has never been on board with the idea of entering this contest, bursting out in tears himself every time I mentioned it. Have you ever seen Robert Redford’s famous blue eyes cry a torrent of anguished tears? No? Then you cannot understand my plight.

And then there is Wally’s job. He finally has the job he always wanted and is actually in charge of people. He can’t just up and take a six month leave of absence. He would have to quit, which would mean we’d have to sell our house and then move away from Mobile because there isn’t another agency of the same level here.

So we’d have to move away from the coast with no guarantee we’d relocate along another coast. That means leaving behind the Sea Lab, which has some of the most awesome people who help us support Payton’s gift with marine science.

How many other places would let an eight year old be a docent?

I’m pretty sure this is how life goes on, each day just like another. Dreams sound so wonderful when you talk about them, but then reality (that term is used loosely, as always on this blog) creeps in in the way of children who don’t want to go, spouse careers, and marine biology opportunities that are already in your lap.

Life’s a gamble, so they say. But I keep finding myself playing the safe hand and I’m not sure if I like that.

So I ask myself, what does it mean to live?

Does it mean having exotic adventures? World travel? Eating snails in France?

Or does it mean being present and aware, no matter where you are, even if it’s Alabama?

I’m not sure I know the answer, but there is such a thing as being too comfortable no matter where you are.

It’s time to get uncomfortable. I feel the need for a new adventure, even if it isn’t a chance to move across the world to live on a tropical island for six months.

I’m going to make Wally call about getting his vasectomy reversed.

(I didn’t specify who would be uncomfortable.)

This entry was posted on Monday, February 16th, 2009 at 1:57 am and is filed under Evidence File for The Betty, I'm Deep Like a Marshmallow. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.