Now Where's Your Picket Fence, Love?

Sometimes, I feel like it's a little bit ridiculous to expect someone to decide what they want to do with their lives over the course of 19 years - the majority of which is spent learning basic cognitive and social skills. But the pressure starts early on. Can you remember how old you were the first time an adult asked you "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" And have you ever noticed how children seem to have the most tenacious dreams? Whether it's wanting to grow up to be a ballerina, or a veterinarian, or a singer, or whatever else their impressionable minds can get a hold of. I think it gets more difficult as you get older because it gets scary - it gets real. Every decision is second-guessed because you're always wondering if it's the right choice: the right choice for you, or the right choice for people around you. Is it more important to do what makes you happy, or to do what pays the bills? But before you know it, you're a sophomore in college and the registrar is demanding that you place a label on your diploma. And somehow, you pick something - anything - and start your life. A few years later, there's still another question to ask yourself: Are you happy?

So, we've got the child who dreams outrageous things, and the adult who's wondering if it's too late to be a ballerina. But they're actually in similar situations. When you ask a four year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, they'll tell you what they know - and usually it's what makes them happy. For example, if she wants to be a ballerina, it's because she loves going to lessons. If she wants to be a scientist, it's because she follows her parents to work sometimes. If he wants to be a baseball player, it's because his dad helps him practice for rec league. You get it.

Now, when you ask an eighteen year old what they want to spend the rest of their life doing, you probably didn't notice the slight change in their facial expression when they saw it coming. You see, when a four year old tells you what they want to be, it probably isn't taken seriously - it's just so adults can fawn over how adorable he or she is. But when you ask a teenager, you're expecting a serious answer. A solid answer. Even though they're still trying to figure out if writing will pay the bills, or if they're good enough at math to be an engineer. Usually, they've got a premeditated answer. Something along the lines of "I'm thinking about majoring in [insert major]". Something noncommittal, yet sufficient. Something believable, and maybe even impressive. Or maybe they're audacious enough to tell you the truth: "I don't know yet".

But usually, the major that said teenager decides on is something that they know - whether it's because they've taken a class in high school or their freshman year of college, or it's what their parents or family friends do. But there's always some kind of background - and it's understandable. You wouldn't just close your eyes and pick a major off of a page, or choose whichever one sounds the coolest. And despite how convenient it would be, it simply isn't possible to let you test drive all fifty-something majors before you choose. You pick the one you know about. And if you find that you're miserable, you've got to start all over if happiness is your goal.

But why does it have to come down to that?

So, for everyone who's starting college these next few weeks and have no idea what the hell you want to do for the next 40 or 50 years: I'm not judging you.

But it's Sad and it's Sweet and I Knew it Complete

In 1998, I couldn't skip or kick a ball to a target. But I did however, speak in complete sentences, know my home address, appear emotionally stable, and use scissors 'effectively' (whatever that means). I was deemed ready for grade school.

And tonight (or, yesterday, really), I graduated from high school. It wasn't what I expected, somehow - maybe it's one of those things that you hold impossibly high expectations for and end up disappointed in the end. But 'disappointed' doesn't seem quite right - and I'm not sure what is. I have earned something. I'm just trying to figure out what.

Today, I flipped through an old issue of Vogue at Dimensions while Katy got her hair trimmed. I used to read things like Seventeen and Elle for various reasons, like fashion or beauty tips, etc. But today, after passing over a ridiculous number of advertisements, I settled on an article about facelifts. When I was about fourteen or so, I went to Dr. Rona Beth Holmes, a dermatologist here in Auburn, to have a mole under my collarbone removed. (Side note: Dr. Holmes actually ended up being my Duke University Alumni interviewer this spring). One of the first things I noticed was that her private practice office was nothing like the pediatrician's office. Instead of picture books and building blocks, there were fashion magazines and fitness guides. There were lotion samples and skin care regimens displayed as if it was a store. The next thing I noticed was that Dr. Holmes was very pretty, and rather young - another alternative to the pediatricians I've had. As an impressionable teenager, I found it fascinating that it was possible for someone to have their career based on both beauty and medicine.

The facelift article in Vogue was about a woman, now 68 years old, who, over the course of sixteen years, went through two invasive procedures (i.e. facelifts done by surgically cutting the skin and pulling it tighter) as well as newer, alternative procedures (i.e. laser treatment). I think when I first expressed my interest in the article to Katy, it came off as something along the lines of "Look, this woman looks great after the surgeries - I might consider this when I'm her age". Which isn't true - I have a weird aversion to surgeries that are designed to make you look younger. It's like you're lying to people without saying anything. What I really meant was: Look, this is what people are capable of doing to themselves. The article was about how technology has changed over the time between the woman's first face lift and now. When she had her first procedure at age 52, it involved a scalpel and common sense: if you don't want wrinkles, let's cut off the extra skin. (Katy, I'm trying not to be too graphic). But today, new technologies are available, like laser treatment and autologous fat transfer (using liposuction to take fat from the patient's abdomen or thighs and injecting it into parts of the face that appear "sunken in"). And the impressive part about the new technologies is that they're innovative - they utilize common knowledge in a way that requires less work to be done. For example, the skin is made up of several layers and sub-layers, the outermost of which is dead and will be shed quickly. Then, the subsequent layers grow until they die as well, and the body continues in this cycle. (Coincidentally, I was reading up on this stuff yesterday for no reason). With the knowledge that the body will continue to regenerate healthy skin cells, one of the ideas of using laser treatment is to destroy the top, "old" layer of skin, knowing that new, "young" cells will grow in their place.

I'm sure that entire spiel was pretty boring to most people who actually read it. I am quite aware that I find entertainment in things that others don't. But my point is that things change. When I first went to Dr. Holmes, I left considering a career in dermatology, simply because it supported healthy physical beauty. But now I realize that it's more than something as superficial as that - you have no idea how excited I was to get those two stitches below my clavicle.

Twelve years ago, I couldn't kick a ball to a target, or skip across a room. And today, I graduated from high school, reaffirmed my belief in science, and am one step closer to finding what makes me happy. Oh, and I kicked Neal's butt playing darts at Project Graduation. I guess I learned to aim at a target at some point as well.