What I Am...

“A job defines you,” my mother once said. “So choose wisely.”

“But think of all the possibilities,” I replied. “How could I ever choose just one?”

I had to think a while about my life’s mission. Maybe I could be a singer. I certainly enjoyed busting out notes in the shower. I constantly had tunes stuck in my head, and I was a first-rate hummer. I didn’t know how to play an instrument, though, and I wasn’t too amped about not eating in order to maintain the 90-pound body of a star. Plus, I’ve always had trouble walking in heels. A painter, on the other hand, could go barefoot because that would be artistic. Perhaps I could be the next Warhol, plastering pictures of hamburgers on canvases and charging $25,000 each. Or maybe my style would be minimalist, and I’d paint blue triangles on the sides of old garbage cans to express the erosion of childhood in the consumerist wasteland of Western capitalism. That might be fun.

Perchance I’d lead a simpler life as a schoolteacher. Then I could shape the minds of the next generation. I’d probably be pretty good at teaching English and grammar, provided a six-year-old didn’t hold a gun to my head for assigning him detention. No, never mind, teaching would be too risky. I could make a good living as an architect, though. I’m a fan of skyscrapers, and it doesn’t look too difficult to design one. I’d be able to boost the economy by providing 120 floors of luxury office space, and I’d only have to bulldoze through a neighborhood or two. I could plant the seeds of change. Actually, though, I think a lot of math’s involved, and that would be a bore.

It probably isn’t necessary to think too deeply in the bug-control profession. It would never get old to introduce myself as “The Exterminator” in Arnold’s accent, and then exclaim, “Hasta la vista baby!” as I assassinated menacing insects with my spray gun. It might make me sad, however, to be in the killing business. I don’t know if I’d feel right about invading the creepy-crawly culture and using violence to force my will. Ants have rights, too, you know. This isn’t Iraq we’re talking about.

Potentially, I could be the soothing voice-over on drug commercials. It didn’t embarrass me to talk about bothersome flatulence or vaginal dryness. These were social issues that should be addressed. Then again, I’m not sure if I’d be able to verbalize all the products’ side-effects quickly enough without jumbling my words. I never was very good at tongue-twisters as a child. I am a huge coffee-lover, though, and it wouldn’t be hard to find a job as a barista at Starbucks. There’s sure to be an opening at one of the 57 in the Union Square area. I’d take orders of iced-venti-decaf-double-macchiatos-with-soy-milk and-a-dash-of-foam like a pro, charging them my hourly wage with a bat of my eye. However, the occupation might send me spiraling downward on a toxic road of caffeine addiction, and it could be dangerous to work in such close proximity to the cappuccino machine.

I guess I could cross that one off the list. Likewise, I adore animals, but I could never be a dog walker. I’d find it distasteful, and a bit smelly, to scrape turds off hot Manhattan sidewalks. On the contrary, I would enjoy opening up a pet bed-and-breakfast for visiting pooches and felines. We might speak different languages, but every species understands the universal meaning of luxury. I’d pamper them with paw massages, paint their little claws pink and purple, and take them on Madison Avenue Pet Supermarket shopping sprees. Every out-of-towner needs a chew toy and five-star lodging to rest their snouts. Of course, it might become frustrating that the complimentary slippers needed constant replacing due to teeth marks.

I could be a flight attendant; I’m very good at pointing out exit signs. I could farm a marijuana field in Brazil – work on my Portuguese and my tan in one bold stroke. I could be a bar-tender or a psychiatrist. There’s little difference between them, after all. I could be the announcer at Yankee stadium (that’s job security) or the person who sells dirty water dogs on the corner of 40th and Lex. I could be a taxi-driver, a real-estate broker, a lawyer or a professional sky-diver. I could make boats, sell jewelry, tighten braces, protect the ozone layer, fill pot-holes or trade stocks. This is America!

“Mom, I think I’ll be a writer,” I said. “That way, I could tell stories about all the possibilities, and all the people exploring them. That sounds like a decent job. Plus, you can make a lot of money that way… right?”