When I grow up...

At thirty years old, I feel as though I should know how to finish that sentence. At twenty-five, I believe I did have that sentence finished. By the time I turned twenty-seven, I wasn't so sure. At twenty-nine, I was sure again. I was sure that I really didn't know.

Sigh.

At thirty, I realize that I am in the same boat.

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be a ballerina. I had this MARVELOUS tutu that I would wear all the time. Twirling and spinning to the music in my head, I was SET. A dancer I would be. (As an aside, I'm fairly certain that if I had that tutu today, I'd still be putting it on a twirling around my apartment. Either that or putting it on and getting splashed bus Sex and the City-style a la Sarah Jessica Parker. I'd be cramming my too-big butt in there, that is for sure.) A lack of formal training kicked that dream to the curb.

Today? I feel as though I should be set. I'm not. I am a "grown-up." Well, I guess I am. I have a career, I have expensive diplomas hanging on the walls of my very own office. I'm about to get married. I'm pretty grown up. But that little girl in the tutu is still inside of me. She's twirling. She's strutting around in a tutu. I'm pretty sure she's telling me that I'm meant for something else.

What that is? I don't know.

To be continued....after April 30.