Dan and I watched First Man recently, or as I like to call it Hey Girl Guy Goes to the Moon.
It made me cry. But not for the reasons you might think. It wasn’t because of all the fatalities in the movie, although they were heart-wrenching. It wasn’t because of all the handheld camera, although that made my head hurt. It wasn’t even because Neil Armstrong was married to the flipping QUEEN OF ENGLAND and I read online that they ended up getting divorced after 38 years of marriage.
I cried because I’m too old to pull it together, learn to move my body, and audition for So You Think You Can Dance. I cried because I will never be the youngest swimmer ever to win back-to-back gold medals in the Summer Olympics.
I cried because, sitting in that theatre, I began to plan out exactly what I’d need to do to achieve my lifelong dream of becoming an astronaut. PhD in something sciency and fabulous? Probably. Get ripped and eat nothing but Kale? Definitely. I planned and plotted excitedly and then, as Apollo 11 was taking off, it hit me.
You are not going to space. Probably ever.
And I cried. Just a few tears. The tears of the bitterly disappointed.
Because the problem is, I believe I can do anything… if I really really try. I have an inexplicable and firmly held belief that any failure I have is due to a lack of effort. This can be great. It makes me want to try harder and it means I think my potential is limitless. And it can also be rough because when things don’t go according to plan, I can always find a way to blame the outcome on myself.
Long story short. I am not going to space. I just didn’t put forth the effort soon enough.
I could probably still get a flamethrower though…
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