Resulting from chronic exposure to the elements, a certain page of my undergraduate catalogue carries a slightly different hue from the ones around it. My frequent consultation of the page that lists potential majors serves as a distressing reminder that, in all reality, I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life.
Back in the formative years of my youth, everything seemed to be much simpler. Saving incredible amounts of time due to the relaxed stance on personal hygiene in the preschool community, where only a weekly bathing session is required, I lived a young life completely free of worry, my naive eyes looking forward to a future of limitless possibility. Along with all my peers, many of whom claimed to be upcoming astronauts or firemen, I could not wait to reach adulthood and begin my prosperous career in major league baseball.
Unfortunately, there comes a point in the process of growing up when the simplicity of youth fades away and the innocent dreams of childhood submit to the persistent demands of reality. Amazingly, this destruction of youthful optimism may be pinpointed to a particular stage of the life cycle, known as high school. It is under the unwavering gaze of teachers and administrators possessing the same amount of love for life as medieval executioners that young people come to realize the future is not made of heroic moonwalks and battles against vicious blazes. Quite simply, the daily imprisonment of impressionable minds in dimly lit buildings across the country serves as preparation for years of performing a detested occupation.
Sometime during the course of my high school career, I came to the realization that I simply did not have the natural talent necessary to reach the professional level in baseball. Coaches and players alike were extremely concerned by my inability to throw the baseball with any accuracy. Whereas hitting the ball over the outfield fence results in glorious cheers from fans and teammates, throwing the ball in the exact same location has much more negative results, often involving the deposit of unmentionable human waste products in an unsuspecting player's cap.
As I emerged from the worksheet-filled abyss of secondary education, I was astonished to discover that many of my fellow graduates had already formed what they felt were concrete plans for the future. Since personal interests often undergo drastic changes, all the 'future veterinary technicians' in my graduating class seemed to be holding on to immature fantasies. Even a deep love for animals can fade away with time, particularly if spurred on by a dramatic event such as the loss of a limb to a rabid Akita.
I remained flexible about my plans for the future and chose to attend an incredibly large university in order to keep open many windows of opportunity. Even within the vast variety offered at this school, it has been extremely difficult for me to focus on an area of genuine interest. Although a walk around campus at any given moment might yield erroneous conclusions, no majors are offered in the groundbreaking fields of kegstands and all-day sleeping, meaning that the next few years will carry with them the heavy burden of discovering my true academic calling.
At times, I can almost hear the clock ticking away, reinforcing the need for some direction in my life. For now, all I can do is remain content in my uncertainty. Whether I end up as a major league slugger, as a veterinary technician or as a truck driver, one thing is assured: I will always remember to double check before I put on my cap.
