Career Decisions

When I was in college, I went through a phase where I wanted to be a psychologist.
I will wait for you ALL to stop laughing before I continue this post.
All done?
Ok, good.
I feel that we can all thank every lucky damned star in the entire solar system that the shrink thing did not pan out, because as you know, there are days when I can barely guide myself through the soul-emptying process of deciding what to wear.  I cannot even imagine attempting to help someone with a real problem.
There are lots of things I wanted to be.  Let’s go back (like WAY back) to a more innocent time.  I was about 7 years old when I declared to the world that I wanted to be a cook at Hardee’s, and my sole purpose for this career decision was based upon the fact that I held dear the belief that I—and only I—could vastly improve on the hot ham and cheese sandwich.  (I will now confess that when I was in college, I worked at Hardee’s for ONE day, and it sucked hairy balls.)
Other things I wanted to be:
  • Political Science Major Person (I’m not sure what they do, but the classes were WAY cool.)
  • Writer (“But they are POOR,” my mom would tell me.  I can now confirm this.)
  • Veterinarian (Let’s get real.  I can barely handle my own dogs’ vomit.  There is NO WAY I’m looking at the asses and inner-workings of the dogs of strangers.)
  • Botanist (Not the drug-dealer kind.  Also, those of you who know that I barely scraped by in Botany 101 with a C-, you may stop laughing now.)
  • Person Who Works at an Embassy.  (Because how cool would that be?  Except if you get bombed or have to dress up in suits all the time.  Eww.)
  • Teacher  (Yeah, that sucked almost as much as the job at Hardee’s.)
  • Rancher (Specifically, horses.  Ok, now I am laughing at myself.  I get grumpy when my boobs sweat in my own subdivided front yard.  I’m pretty sure those rancher people do a lot more sweating than I do when I pull weeds.)
  • Writer  (Yep, that’s the one.  Whew!  Finally, a decision, and it only took me…well, a LOT of years.)

So, hypothetically speaking, if I had a daughter who was 17-years-old and had absolutely NO idea what she wanted to do with her life, I should not be concerned, right?  That would be totally normal, right?
Because, damn, I’m thinking this could very possibly be how people end up with 30-year-old adult children living on their sofas eating cheese puffs all day.  Please tell me I am wrong.  It’s totally ok not to know, right?

I mean, I turned out just fine.  Oh, crap…

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