I have never particularly relished thinking hard enough about something to realize that I might be wrong. From my rag-tag days as a sassy upstart to my ongoing life as a salty and often melodramatic teenager, I have both dreaded and avoided the realization that I can, indeed, be wrong. I’m not sure whether this has led me into taking all my steps with trepidation, or taking all my leaps with the sort of fearless fervor that often lands me in a heap on the floor. Maybe and probably, both.
I wonder where the page in my book begins where I stop being prudent and filled with doubt and actually make some tough decisions. I wonder when it is that I will stop having the un-relished fear of being wrong and begin to take some sort, any sort of plunge. In my mom’s opinion, that would mean going to Spain on student exchange. I think that’s one of her un-lived dreams that I could facilitate providing her the ease of living vicariously through me. In my opinion, it means living less for others and more for myself. I think I have that figured out until some adult comes along and tells me I don’t. It seems as though every time I start trying to take the reigns, somebody comes and gently pries them away from my nervous and sweaty hands. This week it’s culinary school. Culinary school and well, marriage. I think I would like to be a chef. However, at this point, I’m used to someone coming around and telling me exactly why I don’t want all the things I think I do, so I’m waiting for that bubble to burst. It is mighty hard to take myself seriously when no one else does.