My morning routine consists of waking up at 5:00, making my coffee and walking entirely too many dogs (3) on a mile and a half trek, praying we don’t run across an errant squirrel or rabbit. (There’s not enough Cesar Milan in the world to keep my 3 dogs from taking me out for critter in our path. Pack Leader, my ass.) To reward myself for participating in such a Fear Factor-esque stunt each morning, I take refuge on my couch and enjoy the commercial-less shows I DVR’d the night before. On my lineup this morning - The Voice.
So there I sat, in the dark, sipping my coffee and watching these amazingly talented people sing for their lives when all of a sudden, I’m bawling like a baby. I don’t mean I got teary. I mean doubled over, head in hands, mouth open, drool descending, audible gasps, ugly crying. I even did the breath thing your 3 year old does when he’s worked himself into a tantrum frenzy. You know, the one that when they attempt to speak it comes out like they’re being punched in the stomach with each syllable – why-y a-am I-I cry-y, i-ing (yes, I actually said these words aloud with only me in the room.) What the hell, drama? Even my dogs were profoundly confused.
Just once… But I digress.
So why get all weepy about some strangers on TV receiving validation for something they were born to do? Because they knew what they were born to do. They knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. They had it figured out and had people who saw the potential in them to grow them into accomplished "whatevers" – to help them achieve their dreams.
On some level I’ve always known that I didn’t have the drive to do any one thing. And I think that’s because I realized I’m not particularly good at anything. That’s a harsh reality and one I’ve never really taken the time to say out loud. Karen, you are not exceptional - you have no discernible talent. There, I said it, and it sucks. I guess I will never know what it feels like to be the best at something or hear Adam Levine say to me, “You are very, very special.”
And that’s when my son came out from his bedroom with his bed-head hair, rubbed his sleepy eyes and, without even asking me why I was crying (or talking to myself), he slowly turned to the TV and said, “Oh, The Voice is on! Mom, I wish you were famous. That would be so cool.”
What a little bastard.