Yesterday, I met a new BFF. His name is Patrick. He is seven years old and soon to enter second grade.  At the time of our meeting I was engrossed in the final round of the British Open from St. Andrews which concluded with a play-off.  I asked Patrick if his father played golf. “No,” he said. “He’s a carpenter.” Fair enough.

Since I had already interrupted the game he was playing on his iPad I asked if he had any brothers or sisters.  “No, and I don’t want any because I don’t want to share my room with them,” he said without hesitation. Clearly, he had thought this through.  I then asked whether he had posters on the wall in his room.

“Yep. I got a T-Rex, a Nascar racer and a space ship.”

I then asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. (He was too young to be turned off by such repetitive old fogey questions.) “I want to be an astronaut or a race car driver.”  No hesitation.

I pressed on. “How about a doctor or a lawyer?”

“Naaah. Doctors don’t make much money any more and lawyers are boring.”

Wow! . . .  From the mouths of babes.

After Patrick’s mother came to his rescue I reflected on how I responded whenever someone asked the same question during my formative years.  I remember saying:  ‘A ship’s captain’.  (Standing alone on the bridge at night facing a raging gale, issuing orders, exotic ports of call  with a different woman waiting in each, no boss, but a dashing uniform with four bars on the epaulets.)

Ah, the dreams of youth!  I hope with all my heart that Patrick achieves his, but life seldom plays fair. . . So why not have some fun with it?

As one ages, new acquaintances no longer ask:  ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’  They ask: ‘What do you do?’

My gut always wants to say: “None of your f*****g business.”   Years ago, when my wife invited me to meet her wealthy Bronxville, NY family members, one asked the inevitable question. My response: “I’m a piano player,” generated an audible gasp from the dowager hostess.  I was, at the time,  nothing more than a computer salesman.  Such fun watching the reactions.

But the most entertainment I’ve had in years occurred during a friend’s birthday party on Martha’s Vineyard.  (He has more money than the Vatican and imported the Beach Boys to entertain – but that’s another story.)

Around 3:00 a.m., after having consumed enough adult beverage to float the Chappaquiddick ferry, a lovely 30- something slithered up wearing a strapless number that barely reached her knees, introduced herself as Kim and whispered; “And what do you do?”

Without hesitation, I replied:  “I’m a doctor. Known professionally as Doctor Wax. I do bikini waxing.”

“Really?” she said.

My good friend Reginald F. Price III was standing by my side. (Straight from the Great Gatsby) “Yes,” he said. “And he is really good at it. You should see some of his creative designs: heart shapes, octagons , arrows pointing down, anything you want.”

Her only response was: “How much do you charge?”  By dawn’s early light there was a queue extending to the beach.

You are welcome.