Master of none

I’ve spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, feeling zero passion, zero inspiration, and feeling like I am not contributing to society. I stare at the popcorned ceilings, wondering why I’ve never felt inclined to any particular skill or craft. This isn’t even a new, struggling 20-something problem either. I’ve had nights like these for as long as I can remember, since adolescence. 

When I was young, I tried all the sports like you do. I tried softball and was too scared of batting and the potential of getting hit by the ball, so I quit that. I tried basketball, but it was too short to accomplish anything. I tried dance and liked that for a while, but I was just okay. I then tried volleyball and became obsessed. I was short, so I got the stand in the back. In middle school, I tried hard, worked my way up to the A-team, and even started playing club volleyball in the winter. I was decent and carried my weight on a team until I didn’t. My stellar performances turned to mediocracy. I then quit my senior year before I got a banner with my face on it in the auxiliary gym. 

I was pretty good at math and English in school, finished all my work, and got exceptional grades. But I was never a brainiac, which became abundantly apparent when I took the ACT. Yikes. You can work hard, but you can’t fake real smarts. 

I loved shooting until you couldn’t make money with passion art projects outside of college. Moving away from home taught me that the only real money I could make as a photographer was real estate photography or family photos. That creative flame quickly burned out, and now I’m left as a once-upon-a-time photographer. 

I got jobs in corporate America, working in marketing and schmoozing my way into any position I could get. If my boss needed something I wasn’t trained in, I would teach myself and accomplish the task. I was decent at Photoshop, design, copywriting, and running ads, but I never seemed to outshine the competition. I was never considered essential. 

I’ve always been medium beautiful. Not gorgeous, not ugly. Not breathtaking in either way. I’ve cut my hair short, grown it long, dyed it brown and pink, and worn thick eyeliner. I’ve worn slutty clothes for attention and I’ve tried to be the quiet mysterious girl reading at a coffee shop. 

I’m nice enough, but nobody would say, ‘Oh my gosh, she is so sweet. ’ I’m funny, but I’ve never been considered the funniest in the room. I’m good at comforting friends, but never the first to call.

I sit on the sidelines, cheering on others' success. I like and comment on their LinkedIn posts. I call them to tell them how proud I am. I envy these people around me as they become nurses and art directors, get thousands of dollars worth of raises, buy houses, and wake up most days with ambition. 

How do I find that in a life that I’ve coasted through? Passion escaped me long ago and has only come back in tiny cracks of light. Honestly and truthfully, I don’t remember the last time I was passionate. I’m a slow runner, make average money, and craft adequate latte art. I have the friends I have, but I find it hard to create new ones. I am a good enough partner, but nowhere near wife material. Maybe that’s why I’m so lost. Traditionally, women my age would get married and have one or even two children by now. Yet here I am, doing tearful soul searching that women have at 50 when they’ve become empty nesters. 

Looking back at my previous endeavors, I try at something until I give up. I’m a big, stupid, mirrorball that hangs on ceilings—spinning, turning, and trying to shine out from different spots. An area will catch the light until it turns again, moving onto another piece of mirror. I try to be the funny one, I try to care, I try to write this blog consistently. I wish somebody would hold out my hand and place a slip of paper in it. What I’m meant to be will be written clearly in black ink. And it will be concrete, doable, and attainable. It won’t make me stay up at night, I’ll stop feeling inadequate, and I’ll feel passion when my eyes open in the mornings. 

It’s weird, being a master of none. Sometimes, I have the idea to open a coffee shop, sometimes earn a livable wage as a miserable corporate American employee, and sometimes, I start a blog to write down my thoughts. It’s as though I can do everything, yet I have the confidence and drive of a small mouse. Maybe I think too much but perhaps you bitches aren’t thinking enough. Well, you probably are thinking about this, but not saying it out loud. And you’re not writing it on a public website, so I applaud your effort to preserve privacy. But I’m not the only one with existential crises on Wednesday afternoons, right?

Maybe one day I’ll find a passion or something I enjoy doing. Yes, I enjoy my hobbies, but I don’t want to live a life just for my hobbies. I want to create, be known for my craft, and be on the path to mastery at something—something, anything.