I'm on vacation this week and have gone back "home" (when will my parents' house stop being "home"?) to give the grandparents a crack at their granddaughter and score some free babysitting. While I'm here, my mother has gently suggested that I clear some of the crap out of my old bedroom.
I won't bore you with stories of rediscovering my old sticker collection (stickers!!!) or a large bag of rocks that I've inexplicably been saving for the last two dozen years. However, there were a few (embarrassing) gems worth commenting on, in which stupid naive young Fizzy contemplated the future. The following snippet was written when I was nine years old:
I can't remember ever wanting to be a psychiatrist. Although I think the most amusing thing is that my misspelling of the word made it dangerously close to my actual specialty of physiatrist. (I had no idea what a physiatrist was when I was nine. I'm still not entirely sure.) By the way, this was what I thought a psychiatrist did:
I showed this writing assignment to my father, who commented, "See how dumb you were? Wanting to fast forward through time..." But actually, not so dumb. (And also, I predicted the plot of a future Adam Sandler movie.) In any case, I sure as hell wouldn't want to do any of that schooling over again. I'm pretty glad it's all behind me. Well, except for some parts of college. Ah, college.
Of course, I've saved the best part for last, because I just can't stop until I've completely humiliated myself:
So apparently, at nine years old, I had two goals: to get through med school to become a phy(s)iatrist and to have a daughter. Check and check.
High five, little Fizzy!