On ambition and pets named like people

It feels like all I do lately is write. Go to work, write. Come home, write. Sleep poorly from too much mental exercise and too little physical exercise. It's weeks like these that make me fantasize about making my living differently. A barista, perhaps? The only writing required is what will fit on a paper cup.

When I was little I wanted to be a veterinarian. I also wanted a German Shephard, which I would name Samantha. I was watching a lot of Rin Tin Tin and reading American Girl books at the time. Instead, we got an inbred Maltese and named him Mike. That's not even a joke. Now I'm a copywriter with a cat named Norm. So things have turned out pretty much exactly the way I envisioned them.

In pre-adolescence, my career ambitions shifted to Harvard business school or maybe law, mainly because my mother said I'd be good at those things, and I liked and trusted my mother. Later, my ambitions grew less focused and more near-sighted. The closer I came to actual adulthood, the less prepared I felt to do anything but what was required of me.

That's the thing about adulthood. No one tells you what's required. Get a job, pay the bills, change the batteries in the smoke detector. I've successfully fulfilled two of those requirements in the course of my adulthood. So I'm doing alright, as long as I don't leave any flames unattended. But there's so much I don't understand. Little things, like where to put my purse at a fancy restaurant, or how anyone successfully wears those stupid no-show socks that either show or fall off entirely. But also big things, like what happens if I don't do anything with my 401K after becoming self-employed, and what even is a 401K?

Now, a non-sequitur: there was a point when I wanted to be the President's wife. This was around age seven, before I realized women could be President. Now that I know better, I think I'd stick with First Lady. Or better yet, regular lady. I loathe politics. I just like the title, First Lady.

I still don't know what my dream career is. But I know I can write, even if the only kind of writing I've been doing lacks creative value. So I push myself to write, and in doing so, maybe I'll stop shrinking from ambition in the only field that really inspires me. And maybe one day, I'll be a full-time writer/performer/artist/creative genius. With a cat named Norm. Because while ambitions may fade, Norm is forever. Yes, that's the lesson I'd like you to walk away with. That, and don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't end a sentence with a preposition.