When I went to the liquor store, they gave me a lollipop.
Well there went any inclination I had of becoming a wine distributor, but I’m not sorry about it. It’s not every day an adult walks out of a store with a free lollipop. It used to be that I could go just about anywhere with my little pigtails and be guaranteed a lollipop at any establishment my parents took me to; the bank, the hair salon, or the grocery store. Not anymore.
Most 21-year-olds walk out of a liquor store with a nondescript brown paper bag concealing the clandestine contents. Not me. I walked out with a cherry flavored lollipop. It was very tasty too.
The problem though was that this particular 21-year-old had no idea which career path to take in life. My lack of alcohol knowledge, proclivity for tee-totaling and mistaken identity as a twelve year old were just minor setbacks on the road to self discovery, I told myself. Still, I found myself no closer to finding what I should do with my life.
Most of my chosen career paths have ended in disaster, even the plans I made as a child, when I hardly had any clue of what a career entailed!
Come to think of it, my life thus far could be examined as a series of humorous trials. If my life were played out on television, no glamorous actress would portray me on the silver screen. Oh no. It would be the Saturday morning cartoons that glue children’s eyes to the television as they mindlessly swallow handful after handful of cheerios (not that I am speaking from personal experience, of course). My life would resemble the cartoons where the protagonist is a haphazard oaf with a penchant for scrapes and silly situations. That’s me.
Like many little girls, I dreamed of becoming a magical mermaid. When third grade me was given the opportunity to embody the majestic creature in the play Peter Pan, I jumped at the chance. I memorized all of my lines, purchased a beautiful mermaid costume, and put on copious quantities of sparkly makeup. A starfish was pinned to my costume for all the world, and my active allergens, to see. I was ready to go. My dreams were about to be fulfilled. Or so I thought. I should have known that my ideas rarely go according to plan. Instead they generally hop on the crazy train, ride it to crazy town, and set up shop in the boondocks of Nowhere-Near-Where-I-Plannedsville. Nowhere in that little girl’s dream did my mermaid appearance include hives and an itchy rash. But, like I said, my plans have a mind of their own and very rarely do they politely stop to consult my opinion before continuing helter-skelter in any direction they choose.
I didn’t need to give up the mermaid dream entirely. Maybe I could just alter it a little bit. Marine wildlife sounded exciting. Fifth grade me adored dolphins, fish, and turtles. I relished the idea of spending the day near the sea, enjoying the ocean and beaches I loved so much. Apparently, it wasn’t mutual. One tiny scallop brought that dream crashing down. I devoured a scallop at my aunt’s wedding on my grandfather’s dare. I had a major allergic reaction. Honestly we should have known there was something wrong with my tolerance for seafood after the mermaid debacle, but there we were, making the same dumb decisions.
I tried my hand at horseback riding. As a preteen, I had dreams of owning horses and riding them off into the sunset. I was going to be a barrel racing queen. The first step on my journey to being a world renowned rodeo star was a barrel race relay I participated in at the ripe old age of twelve. I hopped on the horse, both of us raring to go. I dug my heels into the horse’s sides and we took off. I circled all three barrels at lightening speed (or, more accurately, what felt like lightening speed to me) and bolted back to the next rider in the relay. I jumped off the western saddle with the horn in the front and on to the ground. My shirt didn’t make it. There I stood on the ground, but my shirt (and my bra) remained looped around the saddle’s horn. Fabric snapped in two and my shirt returned to cover my body. Minus the bra. It had ripped down the center. I figured you can’t have wardrobe malfunctions in rodeos so maybe it would be safer to find my calling elsewhere.
College brought its own set of potential career paths and abysmal failures. First semester freshman year, I took a botany class. The intricacies of the plant kingdom were unbelievable! I could totally be a professional plant mom. Or so I thought. The minor detail that I knew nothing about caring for a plant was entirely irrelevant. I was going to be great. There is no shortage of self confidence here. Just skill. I killed my succulent. And the one after that. And the one after that too. These plants thrive in the desert but I managed to murder them in my dorm room! There is only so much I could take! Three painful plant demises seemed to be all I could tolerate.
Well I could always run off and join the circus. I suppose that’s comforting. Although I don’t know what I would do at the circus. I can’t juggle one ball, let alone several. I can barely walk a straight line on the ground, forget about a tightrope suspended in the air! I’d probably end up shoveling elephant manure. That is a bleak and malodorous future.
I could never be a pilot. One of the first requirements is perfect eyesight. Without contacts I couldn’t differentiate between my mother and a store mannequin. I’ve spoken to potted plants I assumed were people. It’s probably best for everyone if I stay far away from the cockpit.
Dentists get paid a lot. I pondered the number of zeroes I could make as I sat in the dentist’s chair in high school. She had me on anesthesia to mess with my teeth and I was a little out of it. My mouth involuntarily started to close. I didn’t even know what was happening until it was too late. I bit the dentist. Really though, she shouldn’t have left her finger in my mouth while I was under the sleepy effects of anesthesia. That’s probably in my file somewhere. Be careful. This one bites. I’m rather partial to my fingers, maybe a different career path would be a better fit for me. Forget all of those zeroes. I’m perfectly content with ten little fingers.
Likewise a singing career wasn’t in my future. I made a joyful noise, but by no means was it a beautiful noise. In kindergarten I told my mom that my teacher sang like the little mermaid.
“But you, Mommy, not so much.” I neglected to include myself.
My dad would hasten to include me on that vocally challenged list. He would threaten to turn off the radio if I sang too loudly.
“Who sings this song?” he would ask me.
“Taylor Swift,” I would respond.
“Oh, so not you. Stop singing.”
Who am I kidding? He would still say that.
Nearing twenty-three year old me still doesn’t know what the rest of my life will look like. But that’s alright; there will be plenty of curves in the road ahead. The adventure is in embracing the opportunities that come along. I’m sure it’s not just me. Plenty of people struggle to find their passion. Who knows where I’ll end up.
Emily Baer 