There are two kinds of people in this world: dreamers and doers. I am a dreamer. My mile-long bucket list includes, but is not limited to, me in a tall white chef's hat, me wearing a press badge, and a bio of me in the back of a novel. Someday, I want to get into the shape of my life. Someday, I want dread locks. Someday, I want a beautiful, colorful tattoo on my back.
I want my children to rise up and called me blessed.
I want to be a grandmother like my mom is turning out to be.
I want to win a cooking contest.
I want to taste marinara sauce in Italy.
Like I said, a mile long.
My husband, on the other hand, is a doer. When I asked him the other day what was on his bucket list, he said, "Nothing. I'm living my bucket list." Then today, he was drinking tea in a local tea house, waiting for a friend, facing a back alley that was bustling with merchants on motorbikes pedaling goldfish jars, and he took this picture of himself. He sent it to me in an email with this message: "Because I'm living my bucket list, baby."
If, however, doers like Daniel did have a bucket list - a suppressed bucket list, of sorts, that even they themselves were unaware of - perhaps dining at a place like this might be on it.