When I was 8 years old, I had life all figured out. I knew how the planets revolved around the sun, I knew how to ride a bicycle and, from a reading of an abridged version of Swiss Family Robinson, was quite convinced I could survive on a desert island. I was convinced I was going to be an architect, and often built Lego houses with an elaborate bathtub in the drawing room.
By high school, this changed to an engineer who was drawing pictures of the internal combustion engine and learning organic chemistry. I had a definite ten year plan – to finish college, get a postgraduate degree, get married, settle down, had decided what color my sofas should be and where we’d vacation for the summer.
As I turned 23 I realize that growing older doesn’t necessarily mean I have all the answers.
Or any of them.
I haven’t figured out a career, haven’t settled down, Hell! I haven’t figured out how to change a tyre. My best laid plans have often been turned upside down in 12.8 seconds and I have absolutely no idea where I’ll be spending my next birthday. As I see dear friends around me get engaged and pick home furnishings, I realize I have a long way to go before I really ‘find’ myself.
If the past twenty three years have been anything to go by however, the journey is as exciting as any destination would be.