Pablo Picasso, in between brushstrokes, once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”

I applaud this observation. I really do. But I think it would better serve today’s society if revised to read, “Every child is a dreamer. The problem is how to remain a dreamer once he grows up, works an unfulfilling job, pays taxes and makes mortgage payments, and spends at least one afternoon waiting in a DMV driver’s license renewal line.”

We, as older adults, suffer from dream deficiency, a malady caused by an addiction to complacency and resignation. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, excessive pragmatism, sudden fondness for the color beige, and counting twice the number of shopping cart items before entering a grocery store’s express checkout lane.

To learn if you suffer from dream deficiency, take the following quiz:

1. If you could play one position in football, without the threat of injury, it would be:
a) Quarterback
b) Place kick holder

2. Which line best describes your ideal night on the Vegas Strip?
a) Though I lost $78, I had an awesome time playing craps.
b) I hope this keno crayon stain comes out of my knit shirt.

3. Which line best describes your thoughts while playing the video game Guitar Hero for the first time?
a) Though I’ll probably make a fool out of myself, I relish the chance to try something new. Plus I’ve always wanted to be a rock star.
b) I’d enjoy myself more if this were Oboe Hero.

4. Which line best describes your thoughts while standing before a climbing wall for the first time?
a) This looks fun; I’d like to give it a shot!
b) I cannot believe some jerk wrote graffiti in Braille.

5. While blowing out birthday candles you wish:
a) For world peace
b) That everyone leaves so you can watch tonight’s Matlock marathon

If you answered “b” to any of the questions, you suffer from dream deficiency. I know, because I’m battling it.

I became aware of my complacency addiction last July while nibbling on a lemon bar at a backyard barbecue, chatting with Skip and Dottie, a 50’s-something couple with toothy grins and I-sell-real-estate hair styles. They had recently relocated to Colorado from Virginia and could not have been happier.

I used to dream big. But not anymore.

“We love it here,” gushed Dottie. “We’re living in our dream home, in our dream mountain setting, in our dream state.”

Her repeated use of the word “dream” struck me. I wasn’t accustomed to hearing it used anymore by people in my age bracket. Especially with such gusto, like she actually still believed in them.

And then she added, “You live in Colorado. So you know what big dreams are all about.”

I nodded yes, but my mind said no. I used to dream big. But not anymore. Especially in comparison to hers. While Dottie dreamed of big houses in big settings, I dreamed of ways to stop chipmunks from eating my petunias.

It was a real-life Harold and Maude moment for me. I was shocked. Me, a pragmatist junkie; I’d become a Harold, when I always viewed myself a Maude.

As a kid I championed the dreamers, the ones who’d always dare to stake new ground — the John Lennons, the Jackson Pollocks, the Monty Pythons.

My biggest hero was the visionary who started the company that makes those plastic owls people place on their roofs. I don’t know who this person is or was, but I revere the audacity of the vision, to firmly believe a living could be made from mass producing plastic owls with furrowed eyes. I derived endless amusement imagining the conversation that took place when he or she applied for a business loan:

Bank Manager: So tell me, what’s the point of your company?

Owl Person: To scare woodpeckers.

Bank Manager: Did you say to scare woodpeckers?

Owl Person: Yes, you know those birds with jackhammer-like beaks that like to rat-a-tat holes in the sides of your house.

Bank Manager: Hmm … yes, I see. And what’s the ultimate goal of your proposed company?

Owl Person: To make the scariest plastic owl on the planet.

Bank Manager: You’re not with Candid Camera are you?

To prove to myself that I too once possessed the ability to dream big, I referenced my 27 journals, dating back to 1976, my sophomore year in high school. Bad idea. While reading about my days of playing goal for my high school and college hockey teams, I was further reminded of the dreamgap that now exists.

Back then I dreamed of riding my “athletic gift” for not flinching to fame and fortune. Despite extreme odds, I fantasized of playing in the NHL and winning the Vezina trophy (awarded to the league’s best goaltender). And then parlaying this success into a critically acclaimed acting career and marrying Sports Illustrated swimsuit model Elle Macpherson, with Mr. T as my best man.

A stark contrast to what I think about today when playing hockey. The lofty dreams of youth have been supplanted with: I hope I don’t get hurt. I hope I don’t embarrass myself. I hope the ice rink’s vending machine sells Twizzlers.

But all is not lost, for they say the first step on the road to recovery is to admit you have a problem. Writing this serves as my own admission. Or at least I hope it does, as much as I hope I can find a new color to paint over those beige kitchen walls.