If you’ve sat and pondered what you’ll be when you grow up as many times as I have, then you’ve changed college majors a few times, signed up for and dropped several classes and picked up a wealth of books from the local big box retailer that are still sitting on your shelf, waiting to be absorbed.
If you’re as prone to maniacal planning as I am, you’ve drafted your entire course-load for undergraduate, masters and doctorate degrees, down to off-the-top-of-your-head notes of thesis topics and resources to look into. Every single time that major in college changed. Or could have. At some point, you’ve owned lists and lists, and possibly considered a book of lists, with a master list of all the lists within said book of lists.
All because you were trying to decide what to be when you grew up.
I’ve wanted to be everything under the sun, from a pediatric oncologist to a pharmacy technician, a writer to a librarian, a cousellor to a bartender. I was going to get anorexic kids healthy, help people work the 12-steps and at the end of the day, design an entire bridal collection. Then I’d bake, frost and deliver the wedding cakes to go with. All while penning the latest and greatest coming-of-age-in-a-dark-and-stormy-way novel.
I could do anything, my brain and mania told me.
I was exhausted from all of the maybe I should be this when I grow ups. Because I couldn’t choose just one thing and stick to it. I couldn’t commit to a life, or some chunk of one, being X, when I could also be Y, Z, 0001 and a naughty nurse.
So, somewhere along the way, I decided, accidentally, to never grow up.
I schlepped from job to job, never staying long, always being promoted and excelling until I didn’t anymore. I moved into new areas of expertise as often as Kirsty Alley calls herself fat. Each job increased my confidence more – if I could do this and do it well, then I could do that – and each industry further heightened my self-esteem.
Make no mistake, I can think I look like a troll, but I know that I’m a fucking asset to a company. I own that shit, immediately upon walking in the door, make it my bitch, put it on a leash and tell it to be quiet unless spoken to. Then I break up with it on a post-it.
At this point, I’ve had over 20 jobs, most of them different from the ones before. And it’s never bothered me.
Ahem.
Only recently, as insomnia has crept back in and plans have gotten more grand and inspiring (I refuse to call this mania, this is merely spring cleaning. On a global level.), have I figured out that even though I’ve been living the life of a grown up in some facets, I still don’t feel like one. I still feel like that 19-year old, bouncing around from easy job to simple gig, making enough to pay the bills, buy smokes and ensure that my Starbucks addiction was quenched.
Except now, I have a kid. And I’m a single mom who currently gets a great hand-out from The Ex, but won’t for much longer.
Except now, I’m doing stuff that is pulling in money, like grown ups do.
Except now, I’m doing stuff that I want to do when I grow up. That happens to pull in some money.
Now, I’m thinking of entitling myself a freelance whatever.
I do a few different things very part time, each of them paying off in some way and value, and each of them could be a full-time career, if I was willing to commit to them. But there’s that broken brain vessel or whatever in me: I can’t commit to one thing. I can’t say “I will be a freelance writer” and the next thing you know, I’m pitching articles geared toward a specific genre, then writing them and getting paid, and going onto the next.
It’s too hard to do that – to wake up every morning and be one person. For me.
But I’ve still decided to grow up at the tender age of 28.
I’ve accepted that I’m not now, nor ever have been or ever might be, that person who picks a career and sticks to it. My perfect grown up existence might actually require me to have a few different careers going at a single time, or else, more bouncing around might take place. And yeah, I have a kid to support and model behaviour for – doesn’t make for a stable existence for her, if I’m constantly moving around.
Now, I blog professionally, outside of the Mommy is Moody compendium. I do bookkeeping and small business consulting. There’s more that I’d love to do – which is supposed to be the goal, right? Do what you love and it won’t seem like work, and all?
- I want to do what I do here everytime that I get the urge to change my look – tweak and customize themes.
- I want to do what I do for myself and friends – transform small apartments and spaces into clean, organized, livable solutions.
- I want to edit and write articles.
- I want to draft an actual, whole, entire novel and shop it around.
- I want to create ebooks. And recipe books.
- I want to get paid to travel and speak about something I’m apparently some form of expert on (which means I’d better get on mastering something, some time soon).
- I want to prepare meals made of simple, healthy foods for families-on-the-go.
- I want to have one hand in online marketing and another in event promotions.
I don’t want a fat wallet, the most beautiful home or 2.5 kids, a cat and dog. I don’t see myself shooting for the executive chair, or a sugar daddy. I’m not planning to ever drive, never mind a sleek, expensive, green-is-the-new-pink-is-the-new-black car.
I want to be busy being me – all 1013 facets of her. And I think the first step is building a career as a freelance whatever.
