Friday, 15 March 2013

When It Doesn't Go To Plan

"We can't all be rocket scientists, Darling."  I cannot remember when or by whom  that comment was made, but I do remember the way it was said.  Sweet, soft, intonation in the right place and horribly patrionising.  I was still young enough to believe that I could be the first woman president, but not old enough to appreciate what the job entailed. That comment made me pause, look up, before being tagged and hearing "Your It!"  Those words seemed to push that phrase to the back of my psyche, lost, forgotten for a bit, but still there.  

My mother said my grades didn't reflect my potential but maybe they did; regardless, those weren't the grades of the future president.  So, I decided to just dabble in politics. Dressed up in a sweater, skirt and chunky high heals, I babbled political rhetoric, passed out pamphlets, joined parties at meeting halls and then at cocktail bars.  It was passionate, I was loud and it was all horribly insincere and I grew tired of it, turning towards the Peace Corps and choosing to give up red meat instead.

I don't know if I could have been a rocket scientist.  I am interested in physics and enjoyed chemistry and math  but not enough to want to give it my nights or my days.  Not enough to choose a science museum over an art gallery, a night sky over a cold morning walk. So, I suppose that if even given the potential, I would have been a lousy rocket scientist.

Power and money taunts and temps from the first time one melts into leather bucket seats.  It is insecurity's  crutch.  So, we make the effort and let it steer us in a particular direction, one that maybe our body is not suited, and this is when  we experience what we believe to be a failure, and we are reminded of the voice that said, "We can't all be rocket scientists, Darling."  However, this time  we cannot be deterred by the distraction of a child's game; so, we wallow, ironically, because we are not the person that we were never suppose to be.

I have wallowed, little one. I try to distract from the practice, turning the music up to dance with you, holding a book to hand, whispering to the characters. Sometimes, I cuddle with your father, head on his shoulder, hand in hand, legs intwined and become silly, so silly that we laugh till we stop making sense and for a moment I can forget about my wallow and be happy.

Baby, if this should happen to you, I want you to know, wallowing is a wasted emotion. You are mourning for something you, probably, never desired but felt obliged to obtain.  It is not failure to stop and find your bearings when you are lost.  That gap in the universe that you were meant to fill is waiting to be found. And I, for the first time, will admit to you and to myself that I never had the heart to and as the result, the drive to be a rocket scientist, Darling. It was just the better paved path that I was expected to follow.

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