Hello Kitty seems to have it all together. Dream house, turkey on the table, her face on every single kitchen appliance known to man. She knows what she wants to do.

Oh, how the Hello Kitty playhouse that resides on my windowsill mocks me so.

I almost feel as if something huge should be happening to me now. Be it the final stages of breast development or knowing my calling that will allow me to one day have my face emblazoned on every young girl in America’s toast in the morning.

What I find most interesting is that I’m nearly 18 and this is my list of possible careers I’d like to pursue:
- Pediatric nurse ( MEH, SPINAL TAPS!)
-Journalist
-Nutritionist
-Linguist (and probably waiting tables in addition, plus dumpster diving for food)
-and, of course, bear training presents no obvious cons to my attention.

The scary thing is that for the most part some of my friends seem to have correlating interests that can seamlessly produce an enjoyable career. Politics and languages?! Be a diplomat! Music and psychology?! Be a music therapist!

It’s awesome! It’s glorious! But does the profession of baby cub nurse who has a little knack for teaching her subjects languages and why it’s important to incorporate fiber into their diets, all of which will be published in a bi-weekly newspaper, even exist?

And it’s also the fact that the thought of myself with just one of these professions terrifies me. It gives me the feeling of bran flakes. That my life could metaphorically be bran flakes in the sense that it obviously keeps you regular, but it’s so entirely boring that you might as well pull an ‘into the wild’ while you still can.

All I know is that I want to do something huge. I want people to urinate laughing so hard at my writing, people crying, people thinking whether it be how I describe the significance of the black woman on the Honey Bunches of Oats commercials, life, my morning cup of coffee, or something as ordinary as the paving of a road.

I want whatever I do to have a humongous impact on people. I’m definitely not talking about ending genocide , poverty, aids, or Nickelback’s music producing music ever again, although the latter would be tempting.

 

I’ve always had this romantic notion of going to college, applying to college, etc. Thick envelope, good. Thin envelope, bad. Checking online before you get either of said letters, as unromanticized as it gets.

When the time came last saturday to decide whether to check online or wait for the ominous letter, stressed-out-over-acheiving-white-girl mode commenced. I told myself that I’d wait until the following Monday, so that I could finally get the “admissions letter of boundless romance” moment to myself. I commend myself for waiting until Wren, Nicole and I finished watching ”Pee Wee’s Playhouse” at 9 o’clock on Saturday to check. I’m a trooper.

On Monday I received two bits of news: 1. I probably have a bald spot on my head from pulling my hair out and can now pass as a Costanza look-alike. 2. All of the smart people at Middlebury have made a technological breakthrough; they have created the thinnest rejection letters of all time.

Seriously, trust me. Kate Moss is fuming at how thin this entire letter and envelope are. I stood stupefied at how shockingly thin it was that I forgot my own disappointment. This letter really did stand up to the old fashion cliche of the whole traditional ” open-up-the-mai-lbox-ooh-yay!thick-envelope-ideal-tv-sitcom-picture-you’ve-painted-in-your-head”. My eyes began to glaze over and I actually began to laugh at this stark little envelope.

I did little experiments with the letter. I timed how long it took to float to the ground. I dropped an apple and the envelope at the same time to see which one would hit the ground first. I pretended to be that one scientistthat dropped all of the random objects off the top of his roof to test his theories on gravity. Galileo? See, that’s why I didn’t get into Middlebury. I can’t even remember who dropped the apples. Admitted kids probably answer questions like that in their sleep. And quantum physics. And compose 8-part harmonies. I mean, if 8-part harmonies are even possible.

Being a senior in high school, nearly everyday we’re all confronted with the same question:

“Where are you going to college?” , they ask in a sing-songy voice.

I kind of zone out for a bit, when asked that question. I envision myself doing fire dances around my rejection letter in tribal war paints, a headress, and a straw skirt, cursing it.

I end up wanting to laugh at the question. In my head I’ve already created a joke out of my rejection. It’s really only been a week and it’s really a non-issue for me. The other day I hit my head getting out of my mom’s car and all I could say was ” That’s why I didn’t get into Middlebury! I just lost 10,000 brain cells!”, as I say when friends and I play the “That’s why you’re single game”. When I forgot to close the garage door and it was open all night , I chortled and chanted “That’s why I didn’t get into Middlebury”.

I really can’t be mad or sad at their decision. In a way it makes me excited as I really have no idea where I’m going . Nothing’s definite and anything can happen.

The only thing I know that is definite is that Middlebury’s quidditch team is going to suck without the addition of a particular awkward, white girl…

… and that rejection letter origami is mighty fun.

What was your college application experience like?  Where were you accepted? Where were you rejected?

Turning 18 has got to be on the weirdest feelings I’ve felt in a while. It’s this odd feeling that you’ve mighty morphed into this large, serious-sounding person. I imagine this is how Alice felt when she drank all of those potions.

When I was younger, my mom took pride in all of the ridiculous clothing she could photograph us in. For me, she had me take these outlandish baby portraits where I’m wearing this pink, monogrammed pair of underwear with ” Mackenzie” labeled in cursive on my backside facing the camera, with this grin that just looks like I’m saying” Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just chilling with my ultra hip pink, frilly, “Mackenzie” lace underwear. Nothing out of the ordinary. I do this all of the time.” Grossly enough, my mom has kept this pair of underwear. Even grosser, a few years ago in a fit of curiousity I tried to see if the underwear fit. Don’t judge me. Obviously, they didn’t fit, but the feeling that surrounded trying the underwear on is pretty similar to turning 18. Hmm, Someone somewhere just awarded me the “Creepiest Analogy Award 2009″. I can feel it.

But I digress.It’s almost like in a metaphorical way, you aren’t allowed to wear pink monogrammed undies anymore. You have to wear serious, purposeful underwear, start thinking about utility bills, andset money aside for dentures. I don’t like it. It sort of freaks the living daylights out of me.

It sort of hit me the other day when I was trying to renew my library card and Mr. Moodylibrarianman told me I needed a new I.D , since it was incorrect. Naturally, I asked if I could just have my mom come by to confirm my address. He said ” You’re an adult now. You can’t have your mommy do everything for you now.”

Boo, hiss. Need some ice for that burn?

I know it was just a small, snide comment, but it still messed with my mind a little. To me the comment actually sounded like this:

“Prunes. Prunes. Prunes. Retirement fund. Replacement hips. Water Aerobics. Senior specials at Denny’s. Red Hat Society.”

I mean, 18 is supposed to be exciting! Naughty magazines! Scratch offs! Lottery Tickets! Smokeless tobacco! Smoke(ful) tobacco! Woo! Right?

I’m just pretty indifferent at this point. It seems to be an age with alot of gravitas and expectation. I think it’s also because 18 signifies another sort of segment in someone’s life. From 18-28, most of the change in someone’s life occurs. College. Grad School. Marriage. Nicole becoming my surrogate ( muahahahahahahaha!). In my mind, it’s a lot less climbing trees, wearing frilly underwear, playing with Hello Kitty mansions and more anti-aging cremes, cellulite, checkbook balancing, and dinosuar sandwich making. But, in a way, I know it can’t all be like that. There’s got to be a little gnome stealing and frilly underwear wearing in the coming years as well, right?