"Um, well, I guess I'd like to be an actress."
...
The pause was just long enough to be awkward. And then she laughed.
That's honestly all I remember. My mind lacks the characters of a pensieve and I honestly forget details.
She, in this scenario was my high school guidance counselor. I have no idea what her name was. I think, that in the 4 years that I attended the school, that was the first conversation that she and I had together.
I don't know if she gave me advice as to what a better career might be. I don't know if she gave me pamphlets for colleges, or information to looking things up on the Internet. She very well might have.
All I can remember is the intense shame that came with her laughter. In a series of various happening within the 6 months before and after turning 17, all I can recall is shame when it came to my future.
Shame because the (only) career that interested me was laughable. Shame because I couldn't think of anything else to do. Shame because I didn't know how to apply to college. I mean literally (not figuratively) didn't know what to do. I didn't know to tour campuses, I didn't know to contrast and compare tuition, extra curricular activities, etc. It was foreign territory to me, and since my life's dream had become a joke (in my very dramatic 17 year old mind), I had no idea where to start. So, to spite the world, I abstained from all things college - and as many of my one woman protests go, in the end I was the only one who ended up feeling the hurts of my actions.
Thankfully, my parents quickly became scary and threatening and helped me get my act together and I scraped together a few acceptance letters.
But this isn't a story about college.
This is a story of a wasted life.
The few months surrounding my high school graduation and entry into college I would quite often be asked what I was going to do with my life. And I would stutter out some BS answer and the person who asked the question would quickly realize how this friendly question was a gateway to some awkward silence. They'd eventually shut up my ramblings with something along the lines of "Don't worry, you've got plenty of time."
And I'd remind myself how right they are. Who knows what they wanted to do with their life at 17? I would ignore the nagging voice inside of me that would respond with, "well, pretty much everyone but you."
So pretty soon I was 18. But hey, 18! Just a kid! I can barely make a political influence, how could I possibly have the next 60 years figured out?
And then I was 19. But I was studying abroad! Life was mine! I was a travelin' girl without a care in the world. And all of these experiences would mould me into a better person who knew stuff... about stuff.
And then I was 20. And 20 was scary because I wasn't a teenager. I was "in my 20s" which I knew was supposed to hold some type of weight, I just didn't know what. But I mean, I was still in college, this wasn't the time to figure it all out. I was supposed to be like, sneaking wine coolers into class. (Just kidding, Mom & Dad - never did that!)
And then I was 21. Aaaaand I had just graduated college! And I was blonde! The world was mine to conquer! Plus I had a job all lined up and so basically I was fabulous. Who knew if it'd become a career? They were gonna pay me about 50 billion times more than I made at any previous job and I got to buy clothes on a great discount so....
And then I was 22. Just a mere "freshman of life" - I was supposed to be making mistakes and such. Learning experiences, right? But things were okay - nothing too great, but nothing too awful. Did I know what was happening in my life? Absolutely not. But Taylor Swift was singing about being 22 and I was trying to go with the flow.
And then I was 23. And 23 started to feel good. I was like, a real adult. I had a job, I was somewhat decent at it- but it had to end. It wasn't what I wanted. (Not that I knew what I wanted, I just knew what I didn't want.) Plus, I had a plan! I was gonna more to New York City.
And then I was 24. And it was shitty. My hair was a weird length. NYC was giving me the cold shoulder. I felt stupid for ever even trying to try. (But it got better.)
And now, I am (almost) 25.
And nothing has happened. Nothing. I feel exactly the same as I did 8 years ago.
When I was 17 and everyone said that I had time, we all agreed. No one said when the "time" ended. There wasn't an explicit expiration date. But I think I'm gonna call it. 25.
I'm starting to run out of time.
Let's just look at the facts:
At least half of my closest friends are married.
I am single.
A chunk of those friends have homes/permanent living situations.
I have moved 3 times in 1 year and rent a room for more money than my parents' mortgage.
Most of my friends have a career that they believe in.
I have a job - that I quit and went back to. And if I tilt my head and squint I can picture a world where the job becomes a career, but it isn't easy.
I eat cheese and crackers for dinner. I wash my hair every 5 days. I can't get anywhere on time.
It's not that I need a husband - or a home, or a career. I just need... something. Something real. Something that isn't just a far away someday dream.
In fact, I take that back, I'd love a far away someday dream. Because I don't have that either. I don't have anything to aspire to anymore. I have no hopes. I have no ambitions.
In my wildest dreams these are the facts:
I pay off my loans within a year.
With the money I now have since I don't pay a small fortune each month into loans, I get a dog.
I wash my hair more often.
I take trips again.
I get an apartment that is mine.
I can afford taxis when the weather is bad.
I acquire a taste for vegetables on a more than once-a-month basis.
I guess what I am trying to say is - in the 8 years since the day I was laughed at, I am still at square one. I have, in other ways, grown leaps and bounds. But that laughter still burns. It still shames me. It shames me from going after anything.
If she laughed, what is stopping anyone else from laughing?
Here's a secret (that I am telling to the universe) - I am picturing you all laughing. Even writing a blog is masochism for me. My desire to tell these stories is fiercely combated by the mental image of blank faces that I went to high school with all crowding around a laptop, reading what I write and ... laughing.
I am not placing the blame of 8 mostly wasted years on one person who's name I can't even remember. The blame is on me for not having thicker skin and for not believing in myself enough to follow through despite a stranger's opinion.
But here I am. I am (almost) 25. And yet I am 17. I pay rent. I have a college degree. I have a grown-up job. I've had boyfriends. I buy groceries. I do my own laundry. I am an adult. And yet, I am 17.
(The title was taken from a line in this song.)
