My Life Plans

The search for my life’s mission began when I was a wee little child. According to my baby book, which my mother was religious about updating, I first proclaimed that when I grew up, I wanted to be  ”a grandpa.” This may sound a little weird, but when I look back on it, I just think about what a smart little kid I was. My grandfathers are both retired, they both sleep whenever they want, and they both have enough money to live comfortably. Instead of my parents encouraging me to perhaps think of a more realistic way to spend my life, I think they should have been patting me on the back because even as a toddler, I knew what it meant to have it made.

After my parents told me being a grandpa wasn’t going to work out for me, I decided instead that I would be a mom. Because I was only three or four at this point, it was seen as adorable to have a little water baby to take everywhere. My first water baby was black. I thought for the longest time that my parents were trying to be really liberal and forward thinking by buying me a doll of the opposite gender, but I found out later it was just that they were all out of white babies and hey, Santa had to bring me something. 

I ditched motherhood to be a ballerina. After all, even at five I knew that tutus and pink tights were way better than expelling children from my uterus. My darling mother, certainly aware of my lack of coordination (the amount of times I trip over myself per day is truly remarkable), encouraged me to pursue my dreams by signing me up for Chris’s School of Ballet and purchasing me tickets to the local theatre, where a real ballet was coming to perform. The ballet lessons didn’t go well (besides coordination, it turns out I also lack rhythm) and as for the performance, I fell asleep shortly after the curtains opened. 

Since I couldn’t even stay awake to watch my future profession, I decided that ballerina Maggie was just not going to work out. I went through the other typical little girl ideals: pop star, model, fashionista, doctor, cake decorator, bookstore owner, coffee shop owner, travel agent, wnba player, teacher, etc. But, let’s be honest: the pop star thing is out, I can’t carry a tune and after ten years of piano lessons, all I can do is play the chorus of the infamous “Go Tell Aunt Rhody.” I’m too old to be a model, I don’t care enough about clothes to design or sell them, Science hates me, and cake decorators have to be able to bake–without the Sara Lee box. 

When I finally reached that mystical senior year of high school, I was told it was time to narrow down my interests. After all, I had to pick a college that had a degree that would help me reach my career, which would give me a pay check, and would eventually allow me to buy my own yorkie (my first one was stolen–more on that later). I came home from school and talked to my parents, working through my options. There was big ten schools, and liberal arts schools, schools decked out in blue, schools in green, and schools in other combinations of colors that were ghastly,  not flattering at all when matched to my complexion. 

In the end, my dad told me not to fret. I could do whatever, then go to graduate school to do what I wanted. While the idea of going to school for longer my not please all people, I instead thought back to that little girl with the dream of being a grandfather and all the perks that come with it: naps, someone else supporting you, and no job. A student, with nothing to do but classes, is on the same level, except since I’m still young, I won’t have to worry about pills, breaking a hip, or a dwindling retirement fund.

If I could go back and talk to toddler Maggie, I would tell her not to worry: dreams do come true. Grad school, here I come.