but I do love David

David Sedaris. He’s #25 on the list of “Stuff White People Like.” The list is a magnificently accurate take on what “the white, hip folk” deem trendy, hilarious, and ironic (See stuffwhitepeoplelike.com). I characterize myself as neither trendy nor hilarious (self-deprecation should definitely make the cut, by the way), but I do love David.

Anyway, Sedaris once said, “He looked as though his life had not only passed him by but paused along the way to spit in his face.”

At the ripe ol’ age of 25, I find myself fearing this—both the passing of my life and the spitting in my face. I reminisce the days of puff painted shirts, pep ralleys, and everlasting summers. I pause to think about my failed romances, plausible careers gone awry, and other cosmic blips. It’s my life. I am in control I think, though the older I get, a future of “the original” and a path “not taken” mutter in a now distant past.

I never wanted to be a teacher. When I was ten, I wanted to be a surgeon. At 15, I wanted to be a professional runner. By the time I was 18, I still wanted to be a professional runner. When I was 21, I wanted to be a professor. When I was 23, I was destined to be a professional vagabond. And a writer. A travel writer.

At 25, I am a teacher.

I watch Grey’s for my bloody fix; I hobble a few miles to make sure I still know how to run; I still dream of being a professor; and my vagabonding days have come to a seismic close.

Here I am, talking to you on a very beaten path. I’ll share with you my minor and major struggles and triumphs, many of which you, too, will share. May life neither pass us by nor spit in out faces. Badabam. Let’s begin.