Not at All What I Intended to Journal About

Was going to write about having one of those evenings where nothing goes right, but I was just reminded of something completely different.

Growing up, I had a "School Days" book.  (If half my possessions weren't in storage right now, I'd be able to find it.)  It was a spiral bound job, with a couple pages for each school year -- where you were supposed to answer questions about the year.  And the pages were attached to each other to make pockets, so that, for each year, you could cram it full of mementos.  So, for instance, in kindergarten, you'd fill the pouch with your report card and some picture you drew of a chocolate chip cookie with legs, glue your school picture to the front of the pouch, and then answer questions about who your teacher was and what you wanted to be when you grew up.

And I remember this because I was extremely annoyed by that last question.  Well, no, not the question -- but the answers.  Because it was all check-boxes, and you'd have to choose among the careers set out for you.  And there were separate ones for boys and girls.  Boys got to choose between things like "Doctor," "Astronaut" and "Cowboy," while Girls got selections along the lines of "Nurse," "Teacher" and "Ballet Dancer."

My childhood inner feminist rebelled.  With my mom's permission (that I could be whatever I wanted to be) I checked boxes from both columns.  I was gonna be the world's first ballet dancer in space.

I also added something to end of the book.  I mean, this thing went up through twelfth grade, and then stopped.  And I thought there should be something after that.  So, when I was around ten, I took a pen and wrote in a few fill-in-the-blank questions on the back of the book, for what I might decide to do at the end of High School.  And the first line read exactly like this:

"Now I will find a man:  __ Yes.  __ No."