What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

I’ve always envied people who knew what they wanted to do with their lives since they were children. You hear people say things like, “I always knew I would be a doctor someday” or “I’ve been working towards a career as a singer since before I could speak”.  Of course, if you asked a young Elena what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had an answer. But I usually offered the stereotypical girlie answers: princess, singer, dancer, actress; although I distinctly remember that I once told someone I wanted to be a cashier when I grew up… Well, I did work as a cashier in high school so I guess my dreams came true? Lol.

Anyway, when I went to college I didn’t know what I wanted to get a degree in so my major was Undecided for one semester. After that, I double majored in Economics and Psychology (yeah, I was very confused). The Econ major fell through after I took a few econ classes and my grades got progressively worse. In the end, I graduated with a major in Psychology and a minor in Business.

Most of my classmates applied to graduate school (because that’s what one does when they have a bachelor degree in psychology) and since I was passionate about the subject I figured that’s what I had to do too. Several failed GRE exams and hundreds of dollars later, I faced the painful realization that not only was I going to miss all the application deadlines, but my desire to go to grad school was wavering. My biggest problem was that it was not replaced with a desire to do something else. This uncertainty led to a few years of working temp jobs doing data entry. There is nothing wrong with that, of course, but for someone in their early 20’s who is educated and driven to do something important (even if they don’t know what it is yet), that type of job is merely a stepping stone.  

At one of my jobs, I had a lot of free time (but it was one of those situations where you pretend to be busy so the boss doesn’t think your position is unnecessary… But to be honest, it was). I spent hours perusing Pinterest and Facebook, and even reading novels.  My coworker, who has fantastic taste in books, insisted that I read The Hunger Games. I NEED you to know that this was way before The Hunger Games was popular. I don’t know why it’s so important for me to tell you that, but it makes me feel better somehow, like I wasn’t jumping on a bandwagon; I was simply taking the advice of a savvy reader.

That being said, I read The Hunger Games at work when I had nothing else to do, and one day, out of the blue, an epiphany shot into my consciousness so violently that I became teary-eyed. In that emotionally overwhelming moment, I set down the book and repeated the realization to myself over and over until the words began to make sense: I can do this. I can write books.

The most incredible part of it all is that I was thinking “I can” rather than “I want to” (like I had when I thought about being an actress, singer, princess, etc.)

Side note: This in NO way implies that I think that I can write like Suzanne Collins! Not for a second! All I’m saying is that while reading her incredible book, some dormant, hidden talent within me awoke and urged me to pursue a similar goal.

Well this revelation came as a shock. Writing make a person incredibly vulnerable to public opinion and judgment.  I mean, people read things that writers write, and I have always been shy! I hated the idea of pouring heart into writing something only for someone to read it and critique it. (And look at me now!!! Hahaha). I tried to push the disconcerting idea out of my mind; it was too scary to think about.

Long story short, that didn’t work. I knew what I knew and I couldn’t forget it no matter how hard I tried. I was supposed to become a writer.

The first time I told my sister-in-law/roommate, I had a nervous breakdown. Maybe it was just a big panic attack, but I felt like I was completely losing it. Sobbing and shaking, I confessed that I felt driven to be a writer. I expected her to laugh, then feel guilty for laughing and try to gently explain to me that being a novelist was probably a really bad idea and I should just quit before I wasted my time writing something. Her actual response was much more unnerving. She thought it was a wonderful idea. She thought it suited me. She thought I’d be great. I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted her to tell me to forget the whole thing, because that would be so much easier than venturing into the unknown.

A series of fortunate events led me to my current job as a nanny of an adorable toddler. My job is a godsend. It is making my dreams come true. Why? you may ask, especially when I just told you all this stuff about wanting to needing to write. Well, my friend, most writers don’t get paid to write. At least not for a very, very long time until they’ve gotten really good at it. So that means I need to spent a lot of time honing my craft without getting any monetary compensation. When I am at work, after I put the little girl down for a nap, I get a heavenly gift: Getting paid to do whatever I want. Sometimes I read, sometimes I write, sometimes I edit my Youtube videos. But I always make the most of my magical free time.

God bestowed upon me several passions, none of which earn me a penny, except for childcare.  But He found a way for me to sort of get paid to post videos and write blogs and write my novels and take notes on books about writing. Even as I type this I can’t believe how ridiculously lucky I am. Do I make a lot of money? Of course not. If my husband left me, I’d be broke as a joke, but God gave me my husband so He’s in charge of keeping him in working order!

It just occurred to me that this turned into a braggy brag session. Bleh. Not what I wanted. I wanted this to be inspirational. My aim is to tell those of you who don’t have an effing clue what you’re going to do with your life that you will eventually figure it out. You will. And when you do, it’s your job to take action and chase that dream that was put on your heart. Don’t quiver in terror like I did. Or, go ahead and freak out for a little while, but then stop, take a cleansing deep breath, and bravely do whatever makes you scared. Yeah, it might be really hard to get into a new field or career path. That feeling of dread might bubble up now and then. But the harder you study or practice or do what you need to do to pursue your goal, you will get better; you will get closer to achieving it.

You better believe that there will be roadblocks and challenges. Something or someone will stand in your way or tell you that you can’t or shouldn’t bother. Time and again you’ll have to take that cleansing breath and push forward.

Chances are, it’ll all be worth it. 

In a Moment of Senility, Elena Bear Buys The Worst Makeup Product... Twice

Awhile ago I bought a Wet n' Wild matte lipstick in the color 901B, Think Pink. It was one of the worst lipsticks I've ever put on my face. The color itself was ok, but did not compliment my pale skin tone at all. The real problem was the texture. Even though I usually exfoliate my lips and apply chapstick before applying lipstick, this product made my lips look incredibly flaky. It sat on my lips in huge chunks even if I applied it evenly. It felt like (and looked like) I was rubbing a piece of chalk on my lips! It cost about $2 so I just laughed it off as a lipstick fail and stuck it in a container with a bunch of other sub-par lip products that I own.

I'm not just saying this... The photos below DO NOT do this lumpy lipstick justice! The awfulness refuses to be caught on camera but trust me, it's the worst.

Recently, I went shopping and, on a whim, decided to buy a new lipstick. When I try out new colors, I tend to buy very cheap lipsticks just to see whether that color looks ok with my skin, and if I love it, I'll buy a more expensive lipstick in that color. I found a really cute Barbie pink lipstick that looked different than what I normally wear and I bought it.

When I got home I looked at it more closely and thought it looked kind of familiar... Holding my breath, I rummaged through my container of rejected lip products and lo and behold, there it was... Wet and Wild. 901B. Think Pink. FML.

That's right. I bought that damn lipstick AGAIN! After the self-hatred subsided, I laughed. A lot. I mean, what else can you do? Thankfully, I still had the receipt and you better believe I marched over to Target to get my $2 back! 

I can only hope I learned my lesson. If I ever accidentally purchase this lipstick again, each and every one of you has the right to slap me. Repeatedly. 

I should add that if this lipstick is your favorite and looks great on you, congratulations! You are my hero, and I hope you are not offended by this rant. As for me, I will probably avoid Wet n Wild's matte lipsticks from now on, for everyone's sake.

People Aren't Monkeys, Apparently (Part 2 of 2)

In my previous post, I told a story of a little girl who was very misunderstood when she asked her classmate to stop behaving like a monkey. Now I will tell a story of a very misunderstood young adult in a similar situation.

In the summer of 2007, when I was nineteen, my father got remarried. The wedding reception was held in a beautiful local park. There was a playground right by the pavilion where the food was served so the children were having more fun than children generally have at weddings. I brought my roommate, Kate, as my “plus one” since I didn’t know many people there and was single at the time. She and I ended up on the playground reveling with my new step-cousins. I need to back up for a second and explain that I have very few biological relatives. I have one cousin (who is an orphan), one estranged grandmother, and possibly a great aunt or something.  The trouble is, they are all in Belarus, which is the country where I was born and from which my parents escaped when I was 2 years old, never to return. So I don’t know any of those relatives and we don’t speak the same language anyway. The point is, I grew up without relatives other than my parents, and all of a sudden, thanks to my new stepmother, I had aunts, uncles, and cousins.

So there I am, on a playground with my friend and my little cousins, having a blast. One of the boys (about 5 or 6 years old) was incredibly energetic and shockingly skilled at going across the monkey bars. Kate and I marveled at his speed and upper body strength, and this kid was soaking up all the attention and beaming with pride. As he climbed all over the playground and zoomed across the monkey bars, he shouted, “I’m a monkey! Look! I’m a monkey!” and Kate and I cheered him on. He even started climbing some small trees nearby to further prove his monkey-like skills.

Another thing I ought to explain is that there were several children and in the chaos I didn’t catch their names (I was literally introduced to 100 people that day). So the jungle-gym king was simply known as “monkey boy”.

When Kate and I rejoined the adults in the pavilion, I started small-talking with one of my new uncles, the father of the playful, tree-climbing enthusiast. I told him how impressed I was with his son, the “monkey boy”, and what a lovely time I had playing with him on the playground. Well, suffice it to say, that man gave me an earful. I couldn’t believe someone I’d just met could be so offended and angry with me!

“My son is not a monkey!” He spat. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing! He is a very special boy and just because he is different, that does not give you or anyone else the right to call him nasty names!” After several similar statements, I eventually closed my mouth, which was agape in astonishment, and walked away to tell my friend about the strange encounter.

We tried to figure out what made him fly off the handle, and the only thing we could come up with was that my uncle didn’t hear me when I explained that his son was climbing trees and monkey bars, making monkey noises, and repeatedly shouting “I’m a monkey!”

I finally told my dad and stepmom about it, just in case my uncle told them first and painted the picture all wrong. They wanted to know what the little boy’s name was but I couldn’t remember. Then they explained that his son was mentally handicapped, which confused me because I was certain he was not. 

I think it took several conversations like this where I adamantly disagreed that the boy on the playground had any disabilities before a lightbulb went on in someone’s head. My uncle has several sons. For some reason, everyone assumed I was talking about a different one.  

The whole thing was so ludicrous that all we could do when the misunderstanding was cleared up was laugh. The moral of the story is that you should never call someone a monkey, even when they are claiming to be one.  I probably should have learned this lesson the first time someone got the wrong idea about what being a monkey meant, but I thought surely there would be no harm in saying that a little white boy, who was climbing trees and saying, “Ooh ooh, aah aah!” like an orangutan, was being a cute monkey. Well, I was wrong.

So please, do not, under any circumstances, say that someone (regardless of age, race, or number of siblings with disabilities) resembles or is behaving like a monkey or any non-human primate species!