What did you want to be when you grew (grow) up?

What did you want to be when you grew (grow) up?

I was thinking about this last night, since someone had asked something along those lines on one of the social media sites I frequent (too much, actually).

I tried to think back to my early years. Things I loved doing, playing at, pretending to be. I mean, I definitely did the whole cops and robbers/cowboys and Indians thing. I tried desperately to remember if there was ever something—some goal—in my mind for what I’d like to be when I grew up. You know what? There wasn’t ever anything.

How sad is that?

Most kids have even flashing hopes for what they’d like to eventually do or be: a fireman, an artist, a policeman, a ballet dancer, a singer, an astronaut. Not me. I’ve been through every memory I can find, searching for some sign of hope, of wishful thinking.

Nothing.

What the hell does that mean?

Eventually, once I began high school, I did find my love of writing. But, to be perfectly honest, it was never a dream of mine to be a writer until I was in my late 20’s. Is that weird?

I look back and try to find some consistency; something I always found myself doing that might lend itself to the arena of an eventual job or career. The only thing I can remember is that I was always a daredevil. A dangerous little boy with barely an ounce of fear.

And, apparently, prone to injury.

When I was 5, I was running to the house to get my father a wrench (he was working on a race car engine, as usual) —and, I fell on the stairs, opening a nasty gash on my forehead. Accordingly, I appeared at the screen door of the house, yelling for my mother, looking like Ric Flair after a nasty battle with Ricky Steamboat. (Yes, my timeframe is well out of synch, but you get the idea.) Five stitches later, I was good to go.

Let’s see: I once jumped off the roof of the house to see if I could land on a tire…it worked amazingly well); I climbed a tree only to fall ten feet to land flat on my back and knock myself unconscious for several minutes (at 8 years old); and, I was constantly trying to jump things. I would run and try to jump long distance, or over the full length of the picnic table (I did succeed…mostly). And, then I learned how to jump things while riding a bicycle. Oh, how things changed.

I once jumped a ten-speed street bicycle over thirteen kids laying in a row. Some were as young as 4. (I was 14 at the time, so forgive my stupidity.) I might add that about the time I hit the ramp, my grandmother spotted the impending doom and screamed at the top of he lungs…but, you can’t just stop that kind of momentum. I cleared the last kid—a 7-year-old little girl—by mere inches. The impact of the landing however snapped the rear gears right from the frame of the bicycle rendering it forever more useless. But, hey. A success is a success.

My last jump was when I was fifteen, I think. I’d surpassed my record by jumping over 18 feet (measured by my foot, which you have to imagine was not 12 inches in length). I reset the ramp, checked everything. Rode the bike by the ramp to see just how far I’d have to clear to get the record, and headed back up the hill to start my run. My banana seat bike was solid, welded steel and heavy. I knew I would need significant speed and I would have to hit the ramp at just the right angle, my feet planted securely on the pedals.

Photo Courtesy of Megui Gómez-Sala (WANA Commons).

The best laid plans, as they say.

I felt it, before I even got to the ramp. My feet weren’t set and I was going too fast. Still, there was that whole momentum thing. I committed… To dreadful failure. As I hit the ramp, my foot slipped, I leaned forward and the bike went end over end. A few things seemed to happen at once: my shin scraped against the front gear and chain, the handlebar jerked from my hand and entered directly into my mouth and my head slammed into the dirt road. As well, I still remember the screams of my sister and of several other kids who were standing around, playing nearby and watching me do such stupid shit.

I walked away (stumbled, really) with a gash in the side of my head, a couple of loosened teeth and lots of scrapes and bruises.

Looking back, that was but a small portion of the stupid things I did. The adrenaline.  It had to have been the adrenaline. Perhaps I was born to be a daredevil? Who knows. I can state as a fact: I am very lucky to be alive today. I’ve had a couple of closer brushes with death – but I’ll save those stories for a later post.

My point is, I never had a solid, definable *thing* that i wanted to grow up to be.

I find that oddly disturbing the more I think about it.

What about you, my dear readers? What did you want to be when you grew up? Did you make it happen? Are you still trying?