Thanks to the oh-so-talented and lovely Countess Momma over at Poetic License, I have been asked to talk about the one topic that has dogged me my entire life; I am faced yet again with the infernal eternal question, the one I meditate on daily. My life's great mystery.
What on earth do I want to be when I grow up?
Perhaps it is best to first look at this through the eyes of a much younger Baroness. What did I want to be, wa-a-a-a-a-y back, when I grew up?
It is important to note here that the problem has historically always been a complete lack of focus. I wanted to be many things (and I still do).
In kindergarten, for example, I wanted to be a doctor. So much so, that when we had our end-of-year "Career Day" presentation for our parents (which is so darling, by the way - foisting career choices onto 5 year olds...), and when I found out that I would be a nurse to Joanne's doctor, I went apoplectic.
At that point, I should have considered law, as I presented (what I, at least, perceived to be) a cold, hard, and well-observed truth that would rival any adult's. Joanne, in my estimation, was a complete idiot. There was no way on earth that she would have the drive and determination to EVER become a doctor. Yet the fabulous doctor's bag was handed to her on a silver platter. Such a travesty.
Today, for all I know, Joanne is the chief surgeon at John Hopkins.
But back then. Ah, back then. I wanted to be the doctor, dammit.
Then there was my arts phase. I did tap-dancing. Baton-twirling. Both of which, I am sure, instilled in me my love of all things shiny. But, as I may have mentioned previously, I am hopelessly unco-ordinated, and so in no way, shape or form would I ever be the superstar of any of these disciplines.
I was a journeyman (journeychild?) at best, filling out the numbers so the line looked complete. (Let me take the opportunity to apologize to my classmates for any ongoing memory losses or personaltity quirks that may have resulted from errant batons and their subsequent head traumas)
As an only child, I was often left to my own devices for self-entertainment. I loved to sing, and this passion was indulged by my parents with the gifts of a portable record player and many, many records. Most were 45's (with their own holder), some were albums.
One of my favorites was the Mary Poppins soundtrack , and after listening to the album over and over and over again, day after day after day, I decided it was time.
Time to put on my own one-woman show. As an homage, as it were, to Julie Andrews (could I possibly sound more like David Sedaris right here?).
I'm not sure exactly how I persuaded my neighborhood compatriots to come and watch this off-off Broadway production, but they did.
And were highly underwhelmed. Which puzzled me.
Because I thought I rocked it.
And I didn't.
I wholly blame Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman. Bastards. Because it sure had nothing to do with me.
Fast forward to early high school. I am in love with tennis star Bjorn Borg. How will I ever meet him, I wonder? Well, of course! I, too, will become a tennis phenomenon, will play mixed doubles with him at Wimbledon, will dance with him at the winner's dinner, make him fall in love with me, and we'll have achingly beautiful Swedish-Canadian babies, with blonde hair and close-set Mediterranean blue eyes.
One problem.
Did I mention the lack of co-ordination?
Post-high school. I revisit the doctor thing again in my brief foray into university. I come to realize that interns do not get a lot of sleep. I like a lot of sleep. There is no way this will work.
Then there's the fashion stream. I consider going to Fashion Merchandising School in Florida (the ad is in the back of a Seventeen magazine - it must be legitimate). Then I consider leaving the home where I am the awkward yet essential third edge of an unpleasant family dynamic. If I left, what would happen? The triangle would collapse.
Scrap that idea.
Then there is venturing into the world of modelling. A tippy-toe in over the edge, a brief (yet well-renumerated) television appearance, then a toe out. Enough of that. I cannot live on steamed carrots and gum.
I realize at this point that I need some sort of post-secondary training to pay the bills (for which I, ironically, take out student loans). I take a Chemical Sciences course - again with the lab coats - in Physical Metallurgy. Why? There are no smelters on this side of the country, we do not have any huge steel manufacturers here. I guess it was to prove to myself that I could.
And I did get pseudo-related jobs after that. Well-paying, but ultimately unsatisfying.
Which leads me back, once again, to the dread career path. To find the one thing I love to do, and as they say, the money will follow.
The path which I sometimes stay on, but most ofter meander off of.
Because I love to meander - is there money in that?
What on earth do I want to be when I grow up?
Perhaps it is best to first look at this through the eyes of a much younger Baroness. What did I want to be, wa-a-a-a-a-y back, when I grew up?
It is important to note here that the problem has historically always been a complete lack of focus. I wanted to be many things (and I still do).
In kindergarten, for example, I wanted to be a doctor. So much so, that when we had our end-of-year "Career Day" presentation for our parents (which is so darling, by the way - foisting career choices onto 5 year olds...), and when I found out that I would be a nurse to Joanne's doctor, I went apoplectic.
At that point, I should have considered law, as I presented (what I, at least, perceived to be) a cold, hard, and well-observed truth that would rival any adult's. Joanne, in my estimation, was a complete idiot. There was no way on earth that she would have the drive and determination to EVER become a doctor. Yet the fabulous doctor's bag was handed to her on a silver platter. Such a travesty.
Today, for all I know, Joanne is the chief surgeon at John Hopkins.
But back then. Ah, back then. I wanted to be the doctor, dammit.
Then there was my arts phase. I did tap-dancing. Baton-twirling. Both of which, I am sure, instilled in me my love of all things shiny. But, as I may have mentioned previously, I am hopelessly unco-ordinated, and so in no way, shape or form would I ever be the superstar of any of these disciplines.
I was a journeyman (journeychild?) at best, filling out the numbers so the line looked complete. (Let me take the opportunity to apologize to my classmates for any ongoing memory losses or personaltity quirks that may have resulted from errant batons and their subsequent head traumas)
As an only child, I was often left to my own devices for self-entertainment. I loved to sing, and this passion was indulged by my parents with the gifts of a portable record player and many, many records. Most were 45's (with their own holder), some were albums.
One of my favorites was the Mary Poppins soundtrack , and after listening to the album over and over and over again, day after day after day, I decided it was time.
Time to put on my own one-woman show. As an homage, as it were, to Julie Andrews (could I possibly sound more like David Sedaris right here?).
I'm not sure exactly how I persuaded my neighborhood compatriots to come and watch this off-off Broadway production, but they did.
And were highly underwhelmed. Which puzzled me.
Because I thought I rocked it.
And I didn't.
I wholly blame Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman. Bastards. Because it sure had nothing to do with me.
Fast forward to early high school. I am in love with tennis star Bjorn Borg. How will I ever meet him, I wonder? Well, of course! I, too, will become a tennis phenomenon, will play mixed doubles with him at Wimbledon, will dance with him at the winner's dinner, make him fall in love with me, and we'll have achingly beautiful Swedish-Canadian babies, with blonde hair and close-set Mediterranean blue eyes.
One problem.
Did I mention the lack of co-ordination?
Post-high school. I revisit the doctor thing again in my brief foray into university. I come to realize that interns do not get a lot of sleep. I like a lot of sleep. There is no way this will work.
Then there's the fashion stream. I consider going to Fashion Merchandising School in Florida (the ad is in the back of a Seventeen magazine - it must be legitimate). Then I consider leaving the home where I am the awkward yet essential third edge of an unpleasant family dynamic. If I left, what would happen? The triangle would collapse.
Scrap that idea.
Then there is venturing into the world of modelling. A tippy-toe in over the edge, a brief (yet well-renumerated) television appearance, then a toe out. Enough of that. I cannot live on steamed carrots and gum.
I realize at this point that I need some sort of post-secondary training to pay the bills (for which I, ironically, take out student loans). I take a Chemical Sciences course - again with the lab coats - in Physical Metallurgy. Why? There are no smelters on this side of the country, we do not have any huge steel manufacturers here. I guess it was to prove to myself that I could.
And I did get pseudo-related jobs after that. Well-paying, but ultimately unsatisfying.
Which leads me back, once again, to the dread career path. To find the one thing I love to do, and as they say, the money will follow.
The path which I sometimes stay on, but most ofter meander off of.
Because I love to meander - is there money in that?
