When I was a child, my mother had this book that she would fill out, documenting my childhood. It was filled with generic questions like, “Who’s your best friend?”, “What’s your favourite food?” and the most exciting question, ”What do you want to be when you grow up?”
From the ages of 4-8, whenever my mother would ask me that last question, I would answer that I wanted to be on Star Search (as if it was a profession). I was dedicated too, practicing my moves in the basement with my plastic high heels and a Fisher-price microphone. I would sing my heart out to Janet, Tiffany and the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack while imagining Ed Mcmahon affectionately watching on from stage left.
When I reached my tween years, I wanted to be a Marine Biologist and I begged my parents for an allowance to re-decorate my bedroom with an underwater colour scheme that was highlighted with a tacky whale wallpaper border. That crap-shoot of a dream quickly dissipated when I reached high school and spent my math and science classes daydreaming about English and drama class while drawing pictures in the borders of my poorly written tests. The nail in the coffin came when I watched Jaws and was then terrified to swim alone in a swimming pool for 3+ years.
In my early teen years, I gravitated towards words and the delivery of them when spoken out loud. One of my favourite things was watching montages that played before Olympic or championship sports games on television. I would tape them on the VCR and replay them back, carefully studying the way the pictures would match up with the words. Growing up with an aunt who was a filmmaker, I use to watch how she would sync music with video and be mesmerized by how powerful that delivery could be. I spent a lot of time reading lyrics and I was sucked into television shows that depended heavily on dialogue and the unvailing of the storyline.
My brother recently told me that he has this vivid memory of being in my bedroom as a kid. I was decorating the inside of my closet with Got Milk ads when I told him confidently that, “when I grow up, I’m going to write these!” No one told my 16-year-old self that the glamour of writing catchy and wordy ads would also go hand in hand with deeply unglamorous copy (I once wrote an ad for grave maintenance).
At thirty, I don’t have one friend who knows exactly what they want to “be” and I’m starting to suspect that our generation will never figure it out. The other day, while thinking about writing this post, I thought about how I would truly feel if I knew the answer to that question.
And I arrived at this: I don’t think it would make me feel any less anxious about my future; In fact, it may make me feel pinned down and a tad bit constricted on my personal journey. I think the knowing part (in all aspects of life) takes the fun and magic out of it all.
There was something so enchanting as I, a spunky and wildly creative eight-year-old, imagined myself all dolled up while performing in front of a captivated Star Search crowd - televised for all the world to see.
I mean, is it not the idea, the curious thought of what could be, that hooks us all, catapulting us into our next ambitious days? I think so. And I don’t want to give that up. For me, knowing would stomp out my could be.
I’ll probably change my mind again tomorrow, but for today, I’m going to try and embrace my once eight-year-old’s ferocious imagination and take my time as I curiously wander through all of the possibilities of what I could be.
“Not all who wander are lost” - J. R. R. Tolkien
S.
