|
|
|
Reading Online:
|
When I Grow Up... 2004-03-12, 4:24 p.m. When I was about four years old, I announced to my family that I was going to be a librarian and the library would have to borrow books from ME (and not the other way around) because I would have every book ever written in my own house. I would read stories to the children with the proper funny voices (and not make Ramona sound so silly) and I would give everyone purple crayons to color with, just like Harold. And I would have listened to their stories about terrible, horrible, no good very bad days, and I would have introduced them to the stories of the Little House on the Prairie, and the Boxcar Children, and the world of Narnia, and all of the Newbery and Caldecott Medal books that they could carry home at once. I wanted to work in a small-town library, an idyllic Carnegie library like the one I grew up using, where everyone knew my name and knew better than to comment on my advanced reading skills or my desire to read every book in the entire place as soon as possible. I was going to show little girls where to find Anne of Green Gables and little boys where they could find the Hardy Boys, and then I’d tell the little boys that they could learn a thing or two from Gilbert Blythe and I’d tell the little girls that they should read about the magical quest to destroy a ring. I just knew that I was going to be a librarian. When I was about eight years old, I got a lead part in the third-grade play where Goldilocks was put on trial for her crimes against the Three Bears. I played Goldilocks’ defense attorney and I had to wear my church clothes to school on the performance day. And I remember thinking that I wanted to be a lawyer someday and that if I could convince a jury of third and fourth-graders that Goldilocks should not be convicted of larceny, that I could probably help other people stay out of jail. And of course, I would be a lawyer for just a few years and I wouldn’t let any gross boys hire me and if they tried, I would make faces at them and try to suppress my giggles. And then, I’d be a judge and I would wear jeans under my robes instead of skirts with pantyhose, with red sneakers every single day, and I would wear glasses with bright-colored frames and I would boss everyone around. Sit down! Order in the court! Bailiff! It seemed like a natural fit - I was going to be a lawyer. Around age eleven, I was going to be a music teacher, just like my mom. I was going to study conducting and orchestration and composition and arranging. I was going to direct high school bands and choirs, and my jazz band would always win the university festival and my show choir would be full of the popular kids with the good hair. I’d get invited to lecture at festivals and conferences and I would teach at summer music camps. I’d run an awesome marching band camp and I’d make sure that the girls on the drumline didn’t get into catfights with the girls on the flag corps because that always happens. I would retire from teaching in a public school system and join the faculty of a university and teach a class or two, conduct an ensemble or two, and be hip and funny for the rest of my days. I have perfect pitch and I’ve been playing the piano since I could sit up on the bench – of course I was going to be a music teacher. When I was thirteen and in middle school, I was very, very boy-crazy, and all of my career goals centered around Making Boys Like Me. I was going to be a sports agent or the popular history teacher, or maybe the cool orthodontist that will offer to take your braces off before the spring dance and put them back on the following week. I was going to be a doctor, or maybe a CEO, or the owner of a professional sports team. I was going to be popular and well-liked and pretty and in high demand. I would have done anything if I thought it meant a certain boy would like me. When I was sixteen, I was going to be a prosecuting attorney. I was going to send criminals to jail and I was going to work tirelessly on behalf of women and children everywhere. I was going to win a record number of cases and then run for the local legislature, and then be the governor of Illinois and if I’d managed to steer clear of any scandals or lawsuits, I was going to be a U.S. senator. I’d have a closet full of suits, just like Hillary Clinton, and I’d have a string of pearls that my husband gave me, and people would say, “Senator Jana is just so classy.” And I would introduce legislation that helped farmers and hurt cigarette companies and I would try to lower the voting age to 16. I would work tirelessly on campaigns and eventually retire as a wealthy political consultant and write books on leadership and political theory every year or two to keep my name in the spotlight so that when a candidate needed a running mate, my name would always pop up and I would politely decline and secretly smile and always wonder what that life would have been like. I was going to be a politician, and my chemistry teacher would rue the day that he said that politics and law were not suitable choices for a small-town girl like me. When I was eighteen, I graduated from high school and had to pick a major on the college application forms. Business sounds good, I thought, remembering all of the comments I’d heard about liberal arts majors that had no marketable job skills. I was analytical, I liked math okay, I was a good writer, and I liked being in charge. I was going to major in business and be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. And I would serve on the boards of other Fortune 500 companies, and if my parents stopped driving me crazy, I would invite them on our corporate jet and let them sit on the plush couches in my corner office. I would twirl around in my fancy leather chair and look at my assistant over my reading glasses and ask him to please run that report and transfer that call and deliver that message. I’d wear dark suits with bright scarves and I would secretly slip my shoes off under my desk and tuck one leg under the other while I was working and try really hard not to twirl my hair around my pen while I was reading important documents. I would run meetings and people would snap to attention when I was in the room, and I would be powerful, but not crazy. I would know exactly how to manage people and run the business and be the best and coolest boss that ever was. I was going to run the business world. When I was twenty-one, I was a senior in college and had rejected my Republican upbringing a few years earlier. I was going to save the world. I was going to run a youth-serving non-profit organization like Boys and Girls Club or National 4-H Council, and I was going to receive high-dollar grants from the most important foundations and bring the best staff on board to develop the best programs to serve the public. I was going to be the guest speaker at conferences and write books and consult on training and curriculum development. I was going to work out of a modest office in a big city and be married to a lawyer or a high-ranking government employee, and we would go to dinner at tiny bistros and drink wine all the time and talk about politics and taxes and literature and lament the fact that a real supermarket is 45 minutes from our home. We’d argue over who got to read The New Yorker first and we would socialize with other childless urban couples and host fondue parties and work long hours and be completely absorbed in our marriage and our pets and our home and our lives, and we’d live above a coffee shop. I was going to be a successful non-profit leader and live thousands of miles away from my roots. Now, I’m twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five in December and I am employed as a business analyst in the Midwest. I have health insurance and a retirement plan and I wear “dressy business casual” every day. I eat in the cafeteria on-site and park in a garage down the street and carry an umbrella in my tote at all times. I buy groceries and pay rent and forget to drop off my dry cleaning. I am baffled by the taxes I pay and frustrated by The Man. I am not married, I have no children, and I live in a beige box apartment in a rapidly growing, disgustingly suburban area of my city. I never wanted to do that. When I’m thirty, I want to be married and either self-employed or working in the management ranks of a small company or a national nonprofit. I want to work part-time and spend the rest of my time learning to keep houseplants alive, playing with my children, and living an active and healthy lifestyle. I want to own a home with a fenced-in backyard where the dogs can run around and chase tennis balls and wiggle in the mud. I want a big laundry room and an eat-in kitchen and a formal dining room. I want to drive a car with room for car seats (and dogs and cats) in the back that makes plenty of trips down the street of my parents’ cul-de-sac. I want to be able to meet my sister for lunch or my brother for a baseball game or my mom for a pedicure on a Saturday morning. I want to weigh 155 pounds and run several road races every year. I want to be a cool mom, a good wife, a close friend, a strong daughter. Most of all, I want to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up.
|