Once upon a time...

...there was a girl who liked boys. She talked to them in bars, she dated them, and she even lived with them. But one day, she decided she was a bit tired of boys. They were, after all, quite silly. She thought to herself, “…perhaps I shall meet a man”. And so she set off to find a man. Despite her fear that this task would prove to be as daunting as crossing the Bridge of Death without knowing the air-speed velocity of an unladed swallow, her quest was facilitated by the all-mighty World Wide Web. There were no clamoring coconuts, just the sound of her tippy tappy typing, while she searched for what women all over the planet have come to perceive as the Holy Grail: a mature, good-looking, funny, smart, sensitive man with a job, who owns a car and doesn’t live in his parents’ basement. Could this mythical creature exist or was it the relationship equivalent of a unicorn?

The girl went through the paces. She gathered some photos, listed some interests, and tried to sound like a girl one would want to know. Cute but not dumb. Smart but not too straight-laced. Confident but not cocky. Open but not desperate. She was just…herself. For better or worse. A non-nerdy neuroscientist looking to have some fun.

One day, out of the blue, a man contacted her. For once it wasn’t the usual claim that surely they must have a lot in common or that they would be perfect for one another or anything trite like that. No, he was different. He needed his brain rewired and wanted to enlist the help of a neuroscientist. How, in good conscience, could she deny him her expertise? This would have been very unprofessional of her, especially given that she had a newly minted diploma just burning a hole in her pocket. So although she was a girl who traditionally had liked boys, she obliged this man and a dialogue was opened. And what a dialogue it was! Quick, witty banter back and forth. Tippy tappy typing all day long! She laughed out loud, she felt her heart flutter, she blushed. Her fingers were never so nimble and light across the keys as they were that day. As the day wound down, he asked if she would be able to continue their repartee the following day. He loved her grammar.

His voice was radio-worthy. It made her stomach do flip-flops. She was so focused on its texture; it was almost difficult to concentrate on the content of what he was saying. Yet at the same time, the words flowed effortlessly between them. And for hours at a time, over the course of two weeks, the words flowed. The girl’s heart sang. Would that it could be real. A meeting was arranged, and the anticipation built.

She saw him from down the street and couldn’t help but to grin. He was a tall, dark, and muscled man. He was dressed well. He approached her and they embraced as though they had known one another for ages. They sat at a table outside, had drinks, a bite to eat, and talked for hours. This girl, who previously had liked boys, was smitten. He drove her home, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.

Five months later, they decided to get married. He went away and came home with diamonds. They made a big ring. This was the way to her heart if ever there was one. One year to the day after the man contacted the girl who in the past had liked boys, they wed.

Four years later, the girl remembers the details well. She looks at her husband and her heart swells. Still. Every date they have, she recalls the first. He does, too. It’s nice. They have a nice life. A happy life they do not take for granted. This woman, who used to be a girl who liked boys, and this man, walking into the sunset and living happily ever after and neither of them knows the air-speed velocity of an unladed swallow. Perfect.

I am what I am

These were famous words spoken by none other than Popeye. Aside from a fondness for spinach, our similarities end there. I wish I had his bulging biceps, but I am happy to report that I neither smoke a pipe nor do I have an emaciated and unfortunate looking girlfriend. Despite the fact that I am not much like Popeye, I am still what I am.

As it turns out, what I am not, is a writer. I know this for several reasons. First, I just don’t feel it in my bones. I don’t possess writer DNA. I do not have that certain je ne sais quoi that makes people feel confident to assert that yes indeed, they are…something. I barely feel comfortable calling myself a runner and I run several times a week, read the appropriate magazines, buy sneakers every 3 months, head outside for a 10+ mile run with enough gear to warrant needing a sherpa, and I enter races. Yet I still feel a bit like an imposter when my husband calls me “a runner”. I am a good actress, being a Leo and all, but not good enough to pull off the charade of calling myself a writer.

Another reason I know I am not a writer is that I have been away from it for quite some time while lodged under a mountain of manuscripts, progress reports, and experimental data, and I have not missed it enough to stop everything (until now) and put pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. I thought about it. Oh, I thought about it wistfully as I took a little break from the chaos and perused the blogs I enjoy reading. I envied those authors their abilities to spin an intricate web of details and memories into a coherent story that had some kind of message or theme, as well as their desire to do so. It is as integral to them as breathing. I can say with certainty that I do not possess these…things…these intangible qualities, properties, or characteristics.

I could provide more reasons I know I am not a writer, but as a reader, you most likely already know them. That is not to say that I am going to discontinue sharing my musings with you. Au contraire. I just think you should not expect literary greatness. Or goodness. Maybe just ok-ness. And that’s fine. So what if I am not a writer? I am plenty of other things.

I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a friend. I am a teacher, mentor, and leader. I am a nemesis. I am a pain in the ass. I am a drama queen. I am a shoulder to cry on and a rock. I am a scientist. I am a good cook and a nurturer. I am a size 6 when life is just so-so and a size 4 when the world is perfect. I am a bundle of nerves. I am a force with which to be reckoned. I am a nerd. I am a girlie-girl. I am a patient. I am an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum and wound tightly around a riddle.

But alas, what I am not, is a writer.