Let’s try something different. Rather than respond to a diary entry, I’m going to analyze pictures that I drew in third grade. Now that I have my own house, my parents are making me clean out their basement, where we’ve stored all of my beloved childhood memories. Most have gone into the donate or toss piles, but some items are keepers. One box I discovered was full of my old school work; thousands of hours wasted and now transformed into musty recycled scraps. But one item that I found amusing was an assignment where I had to imagine myself in 20 years. I was 9 when I drew these, meaning that I am supposed to be 29 in these little pieces of art. Since I have one month left in my 29th year, I figured I should weigh in as to whether these are correct (spoiler alert: NO! Just no).
General Appearance. First, what’s up with my PANTS??!?! Am I supposed to be some sort of destitute pirate? And that top with an ugly daisy and blue fur cuffs? Thank GOD this isn’t a style. Not yet at least. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this outfit. But more disturbing is that my hair is Little-Mermaid-red (I guess I could dye it, but not that color!) and that I have a hideous perm. And what’s up with that mole? Did I grow one? Or did I draw it on? Oh, I know; probably a zit.
Occupation. I don’t want this to come off as an insult to waitresses, but I have never been, nor will I ever be, a waitress. I don’t know why this was my dream job; aside from this (apparently), I’ve never considered waitressing for my occupation. It seems like such hard work! Being on your feet all day, remembering orders, fulfilling the requests of rude patrons, resisting the urge to spit in people’s food. Yeah, no. I’m not cut out for that. I’m an environmental consultant. I work in a cubicle. I write government documents. Guess that’s not as fun to draw.
Family. And there are the destitute pirate pants again! I sure hope those are the same pants and that I don’t own two different pairs. At least I have cute purple shoes with red laces. I also seem to own a cute dog and a cute baby. Looks like this dog is a some long-haired terrier or shih-tzu. Looks like the baby is a girl who either inherited her father’s red curly hair, or accompanied me to my hair salon for a dye and perm. Sadly, this illustration of domestic bliss would never happen. First (and again, don’t mean to offend anyone), I hate dogs. Especially little yappy, pure-bred ones like the asshole depicted here. I hope to have a child someday, but it hasn’t
happened yet. And unless I find myself a new husband, my child won’t have curly red hair (or, at least, according to 23andMe). And let’s be honest: if I had a red-head child, I wouldn’t dress her in pink; the colors clash terribly. Instead, I’m a cat person. My rescue tabby cat is WAY better than a snooty shih-tzu; plus, Pocahontas actually looks good in pink dresses. And the only child I have is my husband. Who, by the way, seems to be missing from my future family portrait. I had a crush on a few boys in third grade, so it’s not like they weren’t on my radar. Was I some sort of feminist, raising a dog and baby on my own? Or did I predict that my difficult personality would scare away the opposite sex?
House. This looks more like a slaughterhouse or a school than a single-family residence. Or maybe a jail with the bars on the windows. It’s three stories, which is just WAY too much house; I would estimate this house at about 5,000 square feet. I’d spend my life just cleaning it. I don’t like how it has no facade articulation or landscaping beside that weird palm-pine tree hybrid. And can we talk about the chimney for a second? As an environmental consultant, I would never, ever have a fire going in my house. To be honest, I’m a pretty lame environmentalist; I barely even compost. But I try to limit my
point-source pollutants, such as air pollution from wood-burning fireplaces and exhaust from cars. Maybe I didn’t think I’d live in California, where it would be nice to have a toasty fire no more than three days of the year. That, and since we are in the middle of a major drought, practically everyday is a Spare the Air Day (meaning that it’s literally illegal to burn wood). I’m ashamed that my 9-year-old self didn’t think of that; my parents raised me better.
Car. Close Enough.