By Sophia Yakumithis

I haven’t written about hot guys for a while, and since I have freedom of speech, that’s exactly what I want to do today. 

However, I’m not going to do that. I don’t think a lady boner is what the people need to read about right now. Instead, I’m going to outline previous notions of “what I want to be when I grow up,” only to have those dreams ripped apart by the malaise that is modern reality. 

Owner of a shrimp restaurant

Some things are hard to explain but just make sense. An example of this arose when I was four years old and wanted to own a shrimp restaurant called “Pepe’s Grilled Shrimp and Shrimp.” 

We’ll leave it at that.

A “garbageman”

I did not want to be a “sanitation engineer” or a “waste management professional.” Being a “trash collector” didn’t even sound appealing to me. According to a first grade journal entry dated September 2005, I specifically indicated interest in becoming a “garbageman” at age six.

This is not to say I had some lifelong struggle with my pronouns, I just didn’t understand how suffixes work. Regardless, I thought it’d be cool to ride on the back of a truck all day, and I’m not sure why I didn’t hold onto that dream because it does sound pretty baller.

An astronomer

I was a complete space nerd in fourth grade. I checked out every single book in the library from a field guide series about planets, and I was armed and ready to cut someone if they brought up the whole Pluto-isn’t-a-planet thing of ‘06.

I also remember frequenting the local planetarium with my mom during this phase. She indulged my burgeoning passion in such a loving, motherly way. We went stargazing together with our old telescope, where she introduced me to space-related movies and she even let me use her late father’s vintage binoculars to identify constellations. 

Looking back on it, she was probably hopeful my interest in science would keep me off the streets. 

But all of that changed on career day, when someone’s astronomer dad came to speak with my class. And that’s when I found out you have to do math.

Screw Pluto. The sun’s gonna blow up one day.

“The art director of an advertising company”

I swear on my life this is something I wrote in my fifth grade journal. 

I’m not sure what look I was going for, but I enjoyed making business cards for lemonade stands on the American Girl Doll website and the idea of selling things to people. For some reason, my precocious, know-it-all brain wanted to fit “American Girl Doll addict” to “art director of an advertising company.”

Who knows, honestly

So here I am today. Doing and pursuing none of those things.

Throwing a career goal in my bag of topics for idle banter with boomers is painful. All I know is what I like, what I’m good at and what I don’t want to be when I grow up. I’ve given up trying to give people a concrete answer because who knows where an art history degree will take me.
But I’m willing to bet it will not lead to owning a shrimp restaurant or garbageman-ism.