I can’t set a volleyball. My little sister who plays college volleyball tried to teach me with little success. Taking organic chemistry was nearly the death of me. I can barely do 10 pushups. I can shoot a basketball alright, and I have decent form, but I spent my senior year of high school riding the bench on the varsity squad.
Both my parents are accountants with accounting degrees. My older sister just earned an accounting degree. My little sister aced her Accounting 101 course. I DESPISE accounting, I’m terrible at it. Right when the professor said, “DO NOT BE CREATIVE. Accountants are NOT creative people,” I knew I was doomed.
My dad stresses the fact that in our adult lives, my two sisters and I need to stick together and help one another out. Michele’s extremely bright, great with managing finances and taxes. Natasha is very independent and organized – I’m talking crazy, OCD organized. We all have something to bring to the table, my father says.
“What do I have to bring to the table?”
“You’re pretty?” Thanks, Michele.
I’m not pretty enough. My boobs are too small. I want to lose 10 lbs. I care too much about what others think. Sometimes I’m confident, though. I probably spend way too much time getting ready. Narcissistic?
I’ve been told I’m not the greatest listener. I’m pretty sure I have a shopping problem. I’m probably the worst procrastinator you’ll ever meet. I so badly need to work on my time management skills. I can’t cook. I think I might be a flake. I tend to be forgetful, indecisive. Even though I’ve gotten so much better, I still tend to overanalyze and stress the small stuff.
But I can write. I can put my ideas, dreams, thoughts, opinions on paper, and I can do it well. Words are my strength, my paint brush. There are a lot of things that I know I’m not great at, but I love my words, and I think I’m quite good at using them.
And I’m a terrible singer, but I love singing in the shower, or on the freeway with the windows rolled down, screaming at the top of my lungs. I’m not the best dancer, but I’m not afraid to make a damn fool out of myself on the dance floor. My neck is often sore the morning after from rocking out like an idiot. I run until I can’t breathe, always. I bite off more than I can chew. When I laugh, I laugh out loud (emphasis on the loud). When I love, I love, with all that I am.
I wanted to be a doctor, but probably not as much as my parents wanted me to be one. I’ll never be one, but I’ll never quit dreaming, and I’ll never quit on my dreams (being a doctor, I later came to find, just wasn’t one of them). I don’t know what I want to be. Sometimes I’m not sure who I am. I’m all over the place.
My dad hates to hear me say I’m not good at things. “Don’t plant the seed,” he says. He’s right. I’m not very good at not being critical of myself, and as you can see, I have a lot to work on.
I’m a good writer. That’s one thing I know for sure. That, and I have a lot of things, wonderful things, going on in this head of mine. Time to set them free.
Pleine de vie, she’s full of life.