What Should I Be When I Grow Up?

As a child in the fifties and sixties, I dreamed of being a singer like Eydie Gorme. Never mind that the only thing I knew about her was that she was glamorous and famous, based on a fuzzy picture cut out of a celebrity column in the Des Moines Register. Dovetailing nicely into that dream, I pictured myself singing fabulously into the microphone to pluck the Miss America crown from the baton-twirling Miss Texas. So what if I was overweight, pimply and extremely nearsighted (corrected with a pair of my sister's hand-me-down owl glasses)? I’d transform myself, like a prim librarian on TV who removed her spectacles and let down her hair bun to astonish everyone with her previously-masked beauty.

As it turned out, my dream never evolved; in fact, I’ve reached middle age singing along with great gusto to Linda Ronstadt, Bonnie Raitt and Carole King recordings. Problem is, I never pursued that dream, or ANY dream. Instead I blithely went about life, reacting to whatever happened to me and just letting it unfold—as life tends to do–without identifying with an ambition, a raison d‘être. It never even occurred to me that I needed one. After all, I’m not exactly a focused, driven world-beater.

Until I read Ken Robinson’s book The Element, I had just a vague notion about something my friend Pat and I had touched upon during one of our many soul-searching sessions—the underlying feeling that we weren’t DRIVEN by anything. Or TO anything. This seemed reasonable for oh, say, my first 50 years. But what about the next (optimistically) 50? I’m not always going to be able to coast on my looks, charm and brilliance. Robinson’s book awoke something within me: the idea that even I, the consummate hopeless slackass, may have a talent lurking within me about which I could become passionate. And that, if awakened, it might prove compelling well into old age, and even help me make some sort of mark in the world.

Some people, one might even say sensible people, concern themselves with this business well before they reach the age of 56. And I’m nothing if not sensible—just a look at my Dutch heritage will convince you of the extreme practicality of my nature. That’s why I’ve always been so responsible—it simply didn’t make good sense to take dance lessons or attend concerts or buy records. Waste of money! You can’t make a living that way!

“Start a blog!” my friends Judy and Madeleine urged over shortbread and iced tea at one of our Panera-based gabfests. They know I fancy myself somewhat of a writer, and that I’ve often fantasized about writing a book. Is a blog a good way for a confidence-deficient, “there’s-always-tomorrow” kind of person to cut her teeth on the discipline of writing regularly? Bless their hearts, they think so. And they swear they’ll read this stuff. Women friends are just the best.

Don’t worry that I still harbor any illusions that I’m the next Lady Gaga. But sixty is the new forty, right? Robinson’s book is full of inspirational examples of people who flew WAY below the radar until their sixth decade of life and beyond. So, just like Bob (you know, in What About Bob?), I take my first hopeful baby steps.