Freshman year, I joined an after-school writer’s club, and even had a poem published in the school literary magazine. It wasn’t bad. But I told my mother, that year and many to follow, that yes I liked to write, but “I’m not a ‘real’ writer.”
My best friend, on the other hand, now she was a real writer. She wrote short stories and essays and went to Governor’s school for writers in the summer. I worked behind the snack bar at the town pool, perfecting the art of the grilled cheese.
In fact, I spent so many years telling myself this, that for Valentine’s Day one year my mother bought me a t-shirt at the mall that said “Yes, I am a writer” in pink sparkles, which of course I never ever wore. Because I didn’t think a real writer would (and I still stand by that). My sister’s shirt said, “Entering the PMS Zone.”
I started taking dance class late, in high school, and continued on in college, where I performed and choreographed, and senior year, was elected director of the dance ensemble. But I wasn’t a “real” dancer though, because I wasn’t in toe shoes from age 5.
The litany of things I claimed not to do is at once astonishing and boring: I’m not a sports person. Or a numbers person. Or a boat person. I’m not “outdoorsy.” I don’t “camp.” I’m not a runner. Or a risk taker. Can’t do shots or wear skinny jeans or strapless dresses or heels or anything yellow. I don’t drink tequila. Don’t gamble. I could never have a one-night stand.
But then, at some point, I must have run out of things I couldn’t do, and what was left was, well, to do them. And once I got through the thicket of my 20s, I started to do things I didn’t think I would, just because I ran out of reasons not to.
I started running, and even entered a road race or two. I posed in a nude photo shoot for an artsy photographer. Made out with a woman who looked like a young Lindsay Wagner. Went rock climbing in the Pacific Northwest where I learned to find toe holds and scale a rock face, then belay back down like an action figure. I went white-water rafting.
I was over 35 when I joined a touch football league with some friends, having never played a day in my life and it turns out I’m a pretty good receiver (they now call me Touchdown Terri, not kidding). I went on a camping trip near Lake Hopatcong, in which I not only pitched but and slept in a tent, then spent the whole next day on a pontoon. I date men far too young for me.
Turns out, I like tequila. And black jack. Ideally at the same time.
I was over 40 when I started doing stand-up, and have performed all over the city, made it to the quarter finals in a comedy festival. Even had one of my jokes flat-out stolen by a popular TV show host (not kidding).
And if we’re being honest, I’ve had more one-night stands than I can count on one (maybe two?) hands.
Basically, I’ve proven myself to be either a poor predictor of my own potential or future desires, or I’m a big fat liar. Maybe both.
My mom gave me a paperweight when I was 22, a big hunk of granite I kept on my desk at work for years. It said, “Whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right.”