Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Today, my parents asked me the inevitable, dreaded question. It happens at least once a month, and it usually comes on weekends.

"Honey, where do you think you're going in life?"

Hearing this never fails to make me want to dig my nails into the wall and claw.

My parents are worried about me. I can see it in their eyes. While they know I'm a good kid and have a decent head on my shoulders, they are concerned mainly about these three elements in my day-to-day, and in the following order:

1) After investing huge amounts into my glittering education, I don't yet have a kickass career
2) I am over the age of 30 and nowhere near marriage.
3) Because I consider my dog my child, I have absolutely no interest in having a real one. Or two.

Tell us where you think you're going in life. How can I possibly answer that?

Here is what they WANT me to say: "Mother, Father, I'm so glad you asked me that! Let's all sit at the table and have a nice, long talk. Here on this chart I have outlined my five-year plan, complete with plans B thru F in case any initial strategies fall through. You'll notice that I have added diagrams in the margins, and all emotional aspects are highlighted in pink. After the post-presentation discussion, there will be a slideshow."

Problems solved, case closed. Happy parents.

I suppose any sensible daughter would have a five-year plan. Heck, I would love to have a plan. I'd love to march into the best newspaper in the city and demand that they give me the career of a lifetime, to which they will comply. I would love to meet a devastatingly tall & handsome footballer or hockey player who has brains to spare, adores me, and wants to marry me on the spot. I would love us to have la vie en rose and for him to completely understand that, in all honesty, I'm still out to lunch on the kids issue.

The thing is, and what I've been learning is that life happens in and around the plan. I can draw up what I want to, but that doesn't mean it will happen. You can plan all you want, but the interesting stuff happens outside your file folders.

Besides, us late bloomers just need a little more time, that's all. Mom, Dad, remember how I was the last kid in school to learn how to tie shoelaces? I was the last to take the training wheels off my bike, the last to learn how to print my name, and even the last to learn to read. But once I started reading, I didn't stop. I needed a tutor in French, special help in Math, and to this day I don't get the formulas of chemistry. But I graduated in the top three percent of my class.

I do believe, with all my heart, that everything will catch up to me. It seems to be my pattern.

Why don't I tell them this? Well, it's not what they want to hear. They still want the chart, pink highlighting and five-year plan, but I can't give them that. So I just smile, and tell them what I always do: "Mom, Dad, don't worry. I'll be fine."

And I really mean it.