For a brief time in my childhood, I was convinced I was going to end up a tortured, mysterious artist. So I set out with my plastic case of watercolors, a useless, thin brush and a cup filled with water and diligently set to work on some “deep” and meaningful paintings. I tried to capture a bird’s exuberance as it dipped and dived, a butterfly’s urgency as it tried to cram a whole lifetime’s worth of experience in the three days it gets to live, the sun’s rays as it hit the trees just so, except no matter which angle I held the brush at, or how thick or thin I made a stroke, the picture just simply refused to be extraordinary. The most I did was make this weird, drippy thing where the colors just blended in together to form a sickly shade of green and brown. Needless to say, I gave up on any dreams of becoming an artist.
But no matter, for a few weeks later, I had stumbled upon a new passion. This time, I was surer than ever that this was my destiny and that I was going to excel at it. So what if my previous aspirations had never seen the light of day? I was going to be a carefree photographer who traveled to exciting and serene places and that was it. I borrowed my mom’s camera and stood out in the balcony in the hopes that I might stumble upon some profound and touching moment and capture it for ever in my ‘clicking device’. I saw a small boy playing with a dog, the most brilliant of smiles gracing his features and furiously clicked away, determined to forever immortalize the pure joy that the boy was radiating. After a dozen clicks, I was satisfied and ran in to my mother, shoved the camera in her face and demanded that she drop whatever she was doing and admire and coo over my talents. She looked confused for a moment as she looked through the images and then patiently explained to me that I had forgotten to switch on the camera and that whatever I thought I had clicked was definitely not on here. I was devastated. She sensed it and hastened for some damage control, immediately offering me some ice cream, I hesitantly accepted the offer and spent the next 15 minutes scarfing down cold chocolate, all thoughts of photography and travelling to exciting places forgotten.
A few days later I was watching The Nutcracker and had an epiphany. Eureka! I mentally cried. That was it! I was going to be a ballerina (cue, sprinkly music—oh you know the one, that tune which always accompanies a flourish)
But, a few plié-and-pirouette-attempt-filled days later, I came upon the saddening conclusion that I sucked. Oh well.
And that was that. Oh the troubles of the extraordinarily ordinary girl.