Because I’m Pretty Sure That Opera Singing Is Out Of The Question
(boring housekeeping crap is below the extra-awesome entry. Because on a scale of 1 to 10, I am super great)
I’m thinking I could maybe sue my parents or something maybe, for not being more supportive and helpful when I was Trying To Decide What I Should Do With My Life. Whenever I told them what I was going to be when I grew up, they absentmindedly gave me the parental equivalent of, “Yes, Dear,” without so much as looking up from their New Yorker or Atlantic.
If they batted an eyelash when I swore up and down, at age 8, that I was going to be a world class ballerina (while I routinely walked into walls because Grace is absolutely NOT my middle name), I’d happily eat my own tongue, slathered in mayo (!!!). I got the same reaction as if I swore I was going to become a serial killer who began her killing spree by murdering her parents or swearing that I was going to be the next Cover Girl model.
I couldn’t raise a pulse in either of them no matter what I tried. They toed the line between being “free-to-be-you-and-me” and comatose.
In the 5th Grade, I remember sitting around in a circle at the end-of-year picnic and one by one we were supposed to say aloud what we were going to grow up to be*. Always the overachiever with the answer normally on the tip of my tongue, I was baffled beyond belief. So I did the only thing I could think of: I copied other people. When it got to be my turn, I took the previous two answers and nearly shouted them, “I’m-gonna-be-an-actress-and-a-secretary!”
Never mind I’d never shown the slightest aptitude or desire to act–unless it got me out of making my bed–nor did I have the slightest idea what a secretary did. My own mother, at the front and center of the feminist movement, who had her degree in chemistry, would have shuddered if she heard me.
But hey, it was a reaction.
As I got older, I continued my quest to determine what the hell I wanted to become. My high school is sort of like a small college, so there were any number of courses and tracks you could take to go wherever you wanted. Figuring I’d become a doctor like everyone else in my family, a noble profession, I didn’t give much of a thought as to what that really meant.
And then I had Ben, freshly 21 and a single mother. Medical school was out, nursing school was in. So I became a nurse. In order to make it through a program that I hated so much that I spent the first day of nursing school sobbing (always with the dramatics!) on the way back to the train, I told myself that I would Do Something Else when Ben was older.
Then I met The Daver, retired from nursing, and waited.
I’d juggled and jiggled the small kid, the spouse, and school before and it wasn’t fun, so I figured that once I closed the doors to my uterus, and my youngest was old enough (old enough is to be determined), I would start to do all of the things I’d been unable to do.
In essence, I’m getting very close to being able to do the things that I want to do again and I can taste the freedom and it is flipping sweet. I don’t have a huge long list of things, nor do I plan to have some sort of crazy timeline, because that sort of thing is setting yourself up for failure, and being a parent is like living a lesson in failure every single day.
Opera singing is out, however, because desire isn’t everything, and you kind of do have to have a talent for something like that because we can’t all be astronauts or opera singers.
But next week, I’m going back to the gym (imagine that sung to “Going Back To Cali”) to begin training for, wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…
Roller Derby. Stop laughing. I have a perfect Roller Derby name. “Becky Sharks.” And how rad would I be? Stop laughing or I will punch you. Then, I’m going to tackle boxing. No, not kick boxing or some boxing aerobics class, but real mouthguard in mouth, maybe lose your teeth, and probably get loads of broken bones. Teeth are overrated, right?
And while those of you who know well my propensity to be injured, I figure if I can break a toe making a sandwich, why not at least do something cool while dislocating bones and getting rad scars? Scars, I’m sorry, but scars are cool.
I also have less dangerous ideas, like getting better at using my digital SLR. I don’t have any desire to do anything besides take better pictures of my family, but I think it’s really about that time to start figuring out what all those numbers and buttons and settings do. Because otherwise, why didn’t I just get a point-n-shoot?
(rhetorical)(alternately, because I am a moron)(but I like rhetorical better)
Eventually, I’ll go back to school to pursue my degree in virology and then plead to the CDC to hire me, even if it means I have to move away from the Midwest to do it. When I used to tell people this as I was slogging through nursing school, they’d laugh at me. And honestly, it WAS unkind. No one could believe that I’d want to go back to school, but I’m pretty sure that they didn’t realize mocking my dream was only going to make me THAT much more determined.
If I can get into any program, that is. If I can’t, feel free to mock away.
More than anything else, I’m just really looking forward to doing something besides wiping butts, using my body as a gigantic teething ring, and reclaiming my individuality. Not to say that having my kidlets isn’t part of who I am, it’s just not all that I am. It can’t be. Otherwise, I’d end up a useless pile of goo the first time all three of my kids are in school at the same time, and not celebrating by drinking a dirty martini for breakfast.
Because it’s always vodka-o-clock somewhere, right?
What do YOU want to be when you grow up?
*Why do adults always think to ask kids what they want to be when they grow up? What a dumb question to ask a freaking 8 year old.
It’s HOUSEKEEPING TIME, Kids! Yaaay!
The video that I put on Facebook of my daughter–the one where I told you we could be BFF, an offer that still stands–was edited using iMovie. I have a Mac (read: love, love, LOVE) and iMovie was ridiculously easy to use. Especially since I had The Daver do it.
I’m thinking that the best way to handle the business cards contest is this: YOU, oh brilliant creative soul that you are, write a blog post about it. Post your pictures on your own blog, write your captions, tell your story, it’s cool. I’m on the edge of my proverbial seat here, people.
Then EMAIL me the link (firstname.lastname@example.org) and I will put it up on the post I will write after the emails come in. Then you can urge YOUR people to come check out the competition and my blog won’t take 38 hours to load from all of the pictures.
IF, by chance, you do not have a blog, or have a blog that you want traffic to, send me the blurbs and pictures or whatever you do, and I’ll put them in the post here. *I’ll* be your blog, Internet. Deadline for entries is September 8, which will also be the day that voting begins. Let’s vote for a week, deadline September 15 at 11:59 PM, and winner–and several runners up, yo–announced the next day!
So, pimp yourself out, and don’t feel bad about it.
Let me know if you haven’t gotten the cards by the end of the week and you got your address to me last week because it’s likely I misspelled something or maybe missed an important number.