I'm not even sure what my dreams are anymore? I am seriously questioning if I ever loved dancing. I think I might have just been in love with the music I got to dance to. In love with the musicians that played that music. I loved writing and wanted to be a writer until I realized that most of the time people just want you to write for free, and that writing is actually a hobby. Like doing crafts. Or jogging.
I had known from a very young age what I wanted to be when I grew up. In 5th grade I can vividly remember spending an entire week in health class filling out paperwork and using my number 10 lead pencil to make teenie-tiny dash marks on a receipt shaped paper during "career week." I answered questions like “do you prefer to work alone or in groups?” My choices were a)some of the time, b) all of the time or c)never. Next question, “I enjoy problem solving” a)some of the time, b)always, c)never. I was deeply convinced that at the end of all of these questions that my teacher would whisk my paper away, run it through that insane automatic marking machine in the office and would come back with an announcement. Not only to me, but to my entire 5th grade class. While Andy was most suited to being a firefighter and Jill was going to be a nurse, the test had proved without a doubt that the only job meant for Keltie was, superstar.
Over my years growing up my intention to my future calling never got any clearer. In 11th grade when I was failing algebra and had to get a math tutor, I announced at the top of my lungs to my entire class, that "math was stupid and that I was never going to need to use the Pythagorean theorem because when I was going to be a star and I would just hire someone to use the Pythagorean theorem for me, if I ever needed it, which I wouldn’t because no one actually uses the Pythagorean theorem."
So, I never made a back up plan. Back up plans were for people who were going to fail. Back up plans were for people who were not going to be stars. Back up plans were for people who in the deepest part of there guts, hiding in a teenie tiny little corner was the littlest hint of doubt that they had what it took to make it. I had no doubt. I had no back up plan. I had ballet shoes. I had a yellow leotard. I had a black and white headshot. I was going to be a star.
Fast forward. In 6 months I will turn 30 years old. When I was 14 I was convinced that like most things in life like rules and limitations, aging would also not apply to me. I am currently alternating acne cream and wrinkle cream nightly. I found my first grey hair. I am driving a 2001 Black Honda CRV with locks that do not work and blood splatters on the roof (I didn't notice them until I had already bought the car.)I buy most of my clothing at forever 21, as if wearing a dress that has a label that says it could actually make being perpetually 21 happen. I rent. I don’t have health insurance. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a college degree. I don’t have a back up plan.
Last night I googled “What am I supposed to do with my life?” in hopes that the information superhighway that usually tells me everything would have the answer to this question. It didn't. It did however, know how to make a chocolate cake from scratch.
