When I was a young lass, I thought – no, I KNEW – I was
going to grow up to be Wonder Woman. I
had the belt and everything. In truth,
it really wasn’t the Wonder Woman
belt, it was a Holly Hobby belt that I pretended was Wonder Woman’s. It gave me special powers as I held my arms
out and twirled. And let me tell
you. I was one damn good twirler.
My brother was the Incredible Hulk. He even had these green floaties that came
with an air pump. They gave you tremendous
green floaty muscles. I was beyond
jealous. I had a freakin’ Holly Hobby
belt and he had genuine green muscles. Life
was already unfair.
Fast forward a few years and it dawned on me that I was
probably not going to be Wonder Woman. I
wasn’t a brunette. And I didn’t have an
invisible jet. I stretched my brain, I
searched within, I discovered what my true calling actually was: to be an ER Clerk, like my Mom.
I think I was about 8 when my Mom started working in the
ER. My life would never be the same
again.
See, my
parents had an interesting way of raising my older brother and I. It sorta went along the lines of this:
- Tell any story in front of your kids, no matter how inappropriate
- Take immense pleasure by telling your kids that “No, this isn’t a horror movie…”, and watch them go green
- Conspire, Plan, and Execute any way in which to turn off the lights, put shaving cream on your face, and hold a flashlight under your chin. All while pretending you’re a zombie, out to eat your children’s faces
What can I say? It was the early 80’s.
In line with this way of rearing their young, my mother
would tell “Stories from the ER”. My
brother and I were too young to stay home alone (although now that I think of
it, that’s where they drew the
line?), and my Mom worked the 3-11:00pm shift.
So every other night or so, we
would pile into our orange and white striped van, without the seat belts, and
drive the 15 minutes to the hospital. My
brother and I were usually sacked out until my mother got in to the car. Then the stories began.
Stories of severed fingers, crazed maniacs getting strapped
to gurneys, paper cuts that Princess found too painful to endure for one more
second! Car crashes, ambulance calls,
heart attacks. And the coup de grace,
the be all end all, the question I had yearned to ask since watching the movie “Carrie”
and my Dad told me it was over when it wasn’t (see: hand shooting out from grave): “Did anyone die
tonight, Ma”?
Just to make things clear, if anyone did die, I felt bad. I really did.
Hearing these stories, I was convinced that Wonder Woman had
not only been the wrong choice for
me, but an ER Clerk wielded much more power.
Who needed a lasso of truth when you could slap a name bracelet on
someone and tell them to take a seat? Who
needed to twirl when you had a wheelchair ready to go? Who needed red boots when you could…well, I
still wanted the red boots, I must admit.
It seemed to me to be the most exciting job known to
man. I had developed a pretty thick skin
at this point for dealing with the ick factor.
In fact, the more ick the better!
I had found my career, and I even announced it to my Elementary School
class when Career Day arrived and one would proudly state what you wanted to be
when you grow up. Blond curls dangling,
I emphatically said, “My Mother is a Unit Cluck, and I want to be a Cluck too!” I had a really bad lisp, so Clerk came out as
Cluck. I think the teacher considered
sending me for help when I confessed I wanted to be Head Chicken. I was always misunderstood as a child.
That kinda ended my desire to be a Cluck, er, Clerk.
From that point on, I kinda jumped from one career wish to
another. After seeing “Silence of the
Lambs”, I definitely wanted to be an FBI Agent.
But there was running involved, and I was a really bad runner. I wanted to be a journalist for quite a long
time, but I only wanted to write about stuff I wanted to write about. Which kinda blows that career. A dancer, a singer, a commercial actress. No, No, No.
Then Junior year of High School came, where you took a career aptitude
test. It asked you what three careers
you would like to have, asked a bazillion questions akin to the SAT, and in 3
weeks, they would send you your results.
Well. My three career
goals were doctor, lawyer, and social worker.
The test came back, which they handed out in class. I was 100 % ill-suited to become a doctor, so
don’t even think of it Missy. Lawyer
wasn’t out of the question but pretty out there, and social worker was a match. The test provided three career goals that
best suited my “aptitude”. Only one of
which I remember, but it’s the one that counts.
Based on all of my answers, I should be…a farmer.
A farmer.
There’s absolutely nothing remotely wrong with farming. Hell, I live in the Garden State. But, please tell me, which of my answers,
what combination of my results suggested farming was for me? Was it the analogy questions? “Banana is to fruit, as pepper is to _?” Was there a subliminal message in the math
questions? Did my scan-tron sheet
somehow indicate a growing plant or pitchfork?
Of course everyone compared results and I was the only
farmer in the class. They might be
doctors, but how were they gonna eat without me, I ask you? Suck it, doc.
***
Well here I sit, many years later. Career-less.
I have floated along the business path as a feather dances on the
water. I’ve gone where the direction has
taken me, and it’s taken me to a comfortable single lifestyle. Here I stand at the crossroads. A chance to start a career that I
choose. Something I want to do. Something I might be good at. And I still have not the foggiest idea what I
want to be. Maybe I should be a farmer
after all.
