“What’s your sign,” I asked him.
He was sitting to my right. There were four of us at the table. I was drinking tequila on the rocks. He was drinking a beer. They were drinking red drinks.
The girl to my left was a friend from Instagram, the social media application; I’m a lifetime member.
The other two people were her friends. A 27-year-old gal from Virginia and her Hinge date, a 33-year-old dude from Brazil.
We met at my restaurant for food and then migrated to my speakeasy in the back of the building. The speakeasy is currently decorated with a Valentine’s theme for the season. Lots of pink, flowers, and fancy sweet drinks. I don’t drink sweet drinks. #wellness.
We chatted for a while about this and that. I asked each of them my standard love questions because love questions are always a crowd favorite. Then we started talking about astrological signs.
“What’s your sign,” I asked my friend from Instagram, the social media application I am a lifetime member of.
“Aries,” she replied.
“What about you? I bet you are a Libra...” I looked across the table to the 27-year-old gal. Libra is the only sign I can remember. I have no idea what Libra means.
“Leo,” she replied.
Close. I guess. Who cares. Signs are dumb, crystals are rocks, and dream catchers don’t catch dreams.
I turned to the 33-year-old Brazilian guy. It turns out he has only been in America for a month and is trying as hard as he can to improve his English. Earlier in the evening, he told us sometimes he can’t understand our conversation so he might look off in the distance.
Poor guy, I thought.
I can’t imagine being in a bar trying to follow three people’s conversation in an unfamiliar language while music is playing in the background (while still trying to be cool on a first date). I also thought he is a total badass for putting himself out there, going on dates, meeting new people, and engaging in English conversations as best he can. Most of my friends aren’t brave enough to actually date but complain about being single. I digress.
“What’s your sign,” I asked him slowly so he could understand.
“Dinasour,” he replied.
Oh.
“No, when were you born? What is your astrological sign?” I asked again more slowly thinking he might have heard me ask what his favorite extinct animal was.
“Yes, it is dinosaur,” he replied again confidently.
The gal across from me, his Hinge date, cut in and tried to explain his sign was his birth date…
“Yes. I know. I’m dinosaur,” he repeated.
Well, fuck it.
“Why are you dinosaur,” I asked.
“Because I want to be dinosaur,” he replied without any hesitation.
I realized he wasn’t trying to be funny; he clearly understood astrological signs and has decided he is dinosaur.
Absolutely amazing, I thought.
I told him that every time someone asks me what my sign is for the rest of my life I am going to say dinosaur.
You are not a sign. You are not a label. You are not in the box society wants you to be in. You are you.
If you want to be a dinosaur, be a dinosaur. If you want to be a butterfly, be a butterfly. If you want to be a rockstar, be a rockstar.
Be what you want to be, not what others say you are.
I am a dinosaur.
Trey
I’m a pixie dust spreader on the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I’m an unicorn 🦄