I am 15. Dad is stepping down as Department Head, and I am in the middle of a crowd of academics at a reception for him. I am wearing my Nine West penny loafers and my navy pinstripe, bias cut Ann Taylor dress. Some women, who apparently knew me when I was a baby, pinch my cheeks and tell me how grown up I am. (If I am so grown up, why do they think it is okay to pinch my cheeks?) I mingle like the miniature adult I am until one of Dad's colleagues calls everyone to attention so he can tell humorous work-related stories that epitomize the man of the hour, at which point I slip behind the refreshment tables and munch on orange Milanos for the rest of the night.
I am happy that I shed the traditions and expectations of my parents' socioeconomic class and opted for a simpler, less formal life when I left for college. But perhaps I have strayed too far in denying my talents and intelligence in order to avoid social responsibility.
What am I doing delivering pizza for a living?!
Current song: "Hallelujah," Rufus Wainwright