I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
There. I said it. It’s taken me about 3 years to admit it, and I’ll be honest, having it out there in the open feels pretty damn good.
That said, there are certainly things I like to do. I like to write. Well, obviously I like to write. I would be wasting my time making this blog if I didn’t. I like to play the ukulele, but the internet needs another mediocre ukulele player like Heidi Montag needs more plastic surgery. Although, now that I think about it, it’s going to take a fair amount of work to reverse the damage that girl has done to her body. I also enjoy mindlessly tooling around the internet, but I’m not sure how I can make that into a profitable and respectable career.
I felt so much pressure in high school to know exactly what I wanted to do. Of course, most of that pressure came from myself. I saw all of my high-achieving friends doing amazing things and going to Africa and saving the world and getting near-perfect scores on their SATs. I thought they all knew what they were doing. Some of them did, some of them didn’t. I couldn’t imagine them complexly and therefore couldn’t see that they didn’t have it all together. So few of us do at 16 or 17.
So, I sort of picked some subject that I was interested and told my parents, “Here. This is who I’m going to be.” No questions. No doubts. No listening to their concerns. I dove right in.
That never actually works out, does it.
Now, after all these years, I’m allowing myself to dabble. I want to discover things that I had no idea I could love before. I want to see the world. I want to read books upon books upon books. I want to see a musical and attend a lecture given by the number one Proust scholar in the country in the same week, because when you think about it, they’re really quite similar. I want to explore my spirituality, my nationality, my sexuality.
I want to be a student.