I come from a family in which everyone is good at math.
Dad is a mechanical engineer, and he thinks numbers are the whisperings of God. Mom laughs it off whenever someone brings up her math abilities. She went to veterinary school, studied a shitload of chemistry and by default, a shit ton of math. She actually does math very well, but admitting it would mean losing the stupid lifelong argument she has had with my father about how chemistry is the language of the creation of everything, not math.
Fast-forward to the child of these two math geniuses: me.
Semester one in college, I was a chemistry major on a pre-med track. General Chemistry 1 and Calculus 1 were my two “hard classes,” but the golden star I got in my very first Calc 1 quiz put the “hard” part into question. I got this. High road to success. Calling dibs on a definite cure for HIV. I’d be a millionaire by my mid-30s.
Then, the end of the semester came along, and I was in the library until 4 o’clock in the morning. I needed a 91 percent on the final exam in order to pass Calculus with a B-. I cried because the stress of knowing that I can’t do any better than a B-, no matter how hard I try, was frustrating.
Via: B Edition
When I went into the exam, my heart palpitated faster than an EDM downbeat. I sat down, knowing that a B- was all I could hope for, and I banged out differentials and integrals as best I could managed, given the pit in my stomach.
Then, as soon as it was over, my semi-digested breakfast made a reappearance on the sidewalk. In that moment, as my oatmeal lay exposed on the ground, I decided that fuck it, my life was a lie, I hated math, and I hated my chemistry major.
I needed a change.
Via: Tower Dive
I had always liked reading and writing, but I had decided long ago that I wouldn’t pursue those as viable career options because they were my hobbies. Aren’t you supposed to be in a perpetual state of frustration over your actual real-life career choice so you can come back home late and complain about how you don’t have the time for your hobbies anymore? Isn’t that the unspoken rule of success?
But then I said, to hell with the rules of success. How about a degree in English?
Okay, I’m lying. It wasn’t as simple as saying “to hell with the rules of success.” It’s never as simple as that, not when you’re trying to live life based on other people’s expectations. It’s such a cheesy movie-type situation, too. There I was, worried about letting people down, having a mini existential crisis over the fact that what I really wanted in life was to write the next big novel, but there was no way in hell that I’d have the time for that while having nervous breakdowns over math.
I did switch majors, a year has passed, and I’m still not sure I can write the next big novel. Sometimes, I’m still weak and regret not being pre-med or pre-law, where 90 percent of all English majors inevitably end up.
Via: Examined Existence
But what’s the bottom line? I’m pre-anything. Pre-everything. Pre-whatever-the-hell-I-want. The sooner I let go of the stigma and the expectations set by my parents, I was able to define what my success story really means.
So here’s to us, Family Disappointments: the “Plan B” everyone worries about can stand for “Plan Bullshit” if you chase your dreams hard enough. Do cool kids still hashtag motivational stuff like this as #YOLO?
Feature photo courtesy of: Mother Jones
