(Some lovely doors in Ireland. Left, in the town of Killarney. Right, in the town of Adare.)
Today marked the second day of school, and in my typical fashion I arrived disgustingly early for an 8am class. A class I'd been dreading, the Light Construction and Methods classroom was cramped, orange in wall color, dimly lit and full of males. Not a single female present. Suddenly my mind began racing: Did I really need this class...and why am I the only female here? Interior design...is that truly what I want to do with my life? For the love of Moses, WHY ARE THERE ONLY BOYS HERE?! And then I ran, like a jittery horse who'd been kicked squarely in the side. I snatched up my laptop and galloped as far from the classroom full of boys as I could, finally ditching in a distant hallway to gather my thoughts.
Now...I'm a smart girl. (Is that too confident to say about oneself? I suppose I mean this: I'm not dense.) So, why is it that even in this modern world where we're all equal regardless of gender, race or orientation, a classroom full of boys can still frighten me? And not just frighten me: terrify me to the extent of fleeing a wing of a building. Is it that I worry they're all smarter than me? Do I fear they're calling me saddlebags under their breath?
Silly, ridiculous me.
Within 10 minutes I had dropped my Light Construction and Methods course in favor of English Writing course, which is, to be honest, where my heart has been headed these past few months. There once was a time that I dreamed of arranging pillows and furniture, of fanning myself with paint chips. But, as time has passed I've discovered that more than anything, I most enjoy the aesthetics of words, letters, the arranging of experiences and emotions.
And so, currently I sit in a coffee shop...a smidge confused, overwhelmed and teary-eyed, wondering if it's too late to find out what's behind door #2: English Major of Sorts. Writing, I believe, is the closest thing to my heart, it's my sanity and so very often my only form of true expression...but if I discovered that I was terrible at it, I would be utterly crushed. (Wow. That was incredibly dramatic...imagine I've now flung the back of my hand to my forehead. Even better. Blame it all on my previous stint as a theatre major.)
Which brings me to this question: If you pursue the one thing you love as a career, do you sell out your hobby, your love, your creative soul?