What do you want to be when you grow up? That’s a question we’re asked from the moment we’re able to comprehend the concept of growing up. Or of questions.
I don’t remember the answers I gave as a child. I just remember the need to say something definitive, and so I did. I’m sure I claimed I wanted to be “a teacher” or “a nurse” or “a vet” or the always popular “a marine biologist,” but I don’t recall having any real feelings of commitment to a particular occupation.
Today, as an adult and a smart ass, I’d answer that question something like this: I want to be “happy.” I want to be “loved and respected.” I want to be “creative.” I want to be “helpful.” Those might sound like smart ass answers, but they are my truth.
Lucky me. I think I am happy and loved and respected and creative and helpful. And perhaps even better—as I’m approaching retirement, I can answer the “what do you want to be” question with a more traditional occupation-based answer. People aren’t going to like the answer. They’re probably not going to take me seriously. But again, as an adult smart ass, I don’t have to care. So here it is: I want to be an artist.
Now I’m pretty sure it never entered my mind as a child that being an artist was even a possibility. To be an artist, you have to be born with talent and there was no indication I had that. Also, artists are staving and moody, and they don’t have 401ks or a dental plan, so why would anyone choose such a life?
What I do remember from childhood is that I loved making art. One of my earliest proud moments was seeing my hand made gold spray-painted macaroni Christmas ornament hanging on the tree. And before that, my hand print in gold spray-painted clay. (Gold spray paint does magically make almost anything more awesome.) Over the years, I made countless creations with crayons and paper and paint and clay and fabric and yarn and flour and glue and resin and glitter and wood and dye and and so much more. So. Much. Fun. And maybe that explains why I didn’t pursue an artistic career. Fun doesn’t pay the bills. Fun won’t get you approved for a 30-year mortgage. Fun is for the weekend.
I’m lucky. In spite of having no real concept of what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’ve spent most of the past 30 years in jobs that paid me well, connected me with good people, and gave me a sense of purpose. And it wasn’t just luck that got me to that place. I studied hard, worked hard, and followed the rules. But I didn’t follow my heart.
I have no regrets. Wait, that’s not true. I have tons of regrets. But regrets don’t do anything for me, so I try not to dwell. My point is that I’m happy with the path my career has taken and the life I have. But now, in the waning years of full-time employment, I am going to follow my heart. I am going to be an artist. That is my next act.
Want to join me?
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