When I Grow Up...

Firstly, I guess Whine in your blog and you shall receive is now a thing. The job I interviewed for where the manager was surprised to hear from me after not calling me back - I got it. My new boss said she knew she wanted me right away, but her bosses wanted her to interview more than one person, so she did that, then hired me :) It's not my dream job, but it's one I've done before and it's part time graveyards, so Mr. Wolfman doesn't have to bugger up his schedule except for my training, and I still get to be home with the Monster.

That kind of works as a segue into what I want to talk about, which is what I want to be when I grow up (aka, now).  When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist and a writer. Maybe a jewelry maker or a carpenter, basically, I wanted to do something creative and work with my hands.

By the time I was 9, I wanted to have a highly technical engineering job, the title of which I didn't understand, even a little, and which no person I had ever heard of (real or imaginary) held. Translation: my mother convinced me that this mystery job would be the perfect thing for me, because, I assume, she thought it made her look good to have a kid who wanted to be a _______. When I told people that's what I wanted to be, they were always amazed or incredulous, and either one fed into my ego quite nicely. When they would ask what that job was, I would act like they were dumb, and tell them it was probably a little difficult to understand.

When, as a teenager, I stopped painting, because my hands shook too much when I tried to do detail, my parents just accepted it. They didn't, you know, try to find out why the fuck a teenage girl's hands shook uncontrollably (knowing what I do now, I'm guessing extreme anxiety, but unlike my parents, I'm not big on self-diagnosis). No, they just kind of collectively shrugged while I gave up something I had always loved and was kinda good at.

By the end of high school, one specific class with one fantastic teacher had me wanting to write again. But when I told my parents that I didn't think an English degree was going to help me in terms of becoming a published author, my mother convinced me to major in something totally different. Neither of us had any comprehension of what kind of jobs you could get with that major (spoiler: one other than teaching - and I didn't want to do it or teach), but she talked me into it, nonetheless.

Anyway, all this ranting and woe is me stuff aside, I started thinking a couple of days ago about joining the local artists' guild; about doing some paintings and possibly, when I've gotten good enough, selling them. I've been seriously wanting to make jewelry again since 2012. I've written and illustrated one children's book and I'm working on another... and today, walking home from the store, it hit me: I should just effing do it.

I grew up. Now it's time to be who and what I want. I want to write. I want to paint - and I'm going to.