Art class cheater

I have always been a sleepwalker. When I was little, I would wander down the hall into my parents’ bedroom to tell my mom I didn’t want a ham sandwich in my lunch the next day. The doctor said I would grow out of it. As I got older, my parents were convinced I had. But my college roommate, who I lived with all four years, disagreed. Every morning she would inform me of what I said and did the night before. I never remembered any of it.

I chalk all the sleep walking up to anxiety and my worrying over the future, school, waking up late, anything.

That worry was what threw me out of bed early one morning after hearing my roommate’s alarm go off. I didn’t need to be up yet, and I really wasn’t. I was sleeping on the top bunk, so when I threw myself out of bed, I hit the floor, scraped up my knees and then climbed back up, all without waking up. Though I guess something good came out of it, my roommate had a good laugh that morning.

I like making people laugh, but that’s not exactly what I was going for. I’d rather just have a sarcastic comment that could do the job. I’m usually full of those.

I always had a smart mouth, or at least that’s what I’m told. When I was young, I was intelligent and I got good grades; I won the spelling bee in first grade.

Later, I was labeled a writer. My older sister was good at math, so I had to be good with words. My sister, actually, was good at a lot of things. That came in handy when I was taking art classes that I hated. One day I brought home a lump of clay, handed it to my sister and brought a dinosaur back to school. I wasn’t artistic and didn’t enjoy any kind of painting, drawing or sculpting, but I refused to get a bad grade. I wasn’t supposed to get bad grades.

Besides art classes, I did well in high school and was involved in a lot of activities. I worked on the paper, I was in band, meaning the marching band, jazz band, pep band, symphonic band and concert band. I also took piano lessons.

My parents weren’t as interested in music. I knew my mom didn’t understand what I was talking about when I said the saxophone section had some really hard drill for our next halftime show, but she always listened like she did. That’s the kind of family I have. They’re incredibly supportive, and my parents never pushed too hard. I pushed myself enough for all of us. They’re also always there when I need help. I haven’t had to worry about paying for college or for my car or apartment. They have been willing to support me so I could focus on other things, like doing well in school and finding a job. Maybe that makes me spoiled. I think it makes me lucky.

But it also gives me no reason not to succeed in life.

I came to college thinking that wouldn’t be too difficult. I knew I wanted to do something with journalism and that I had picked the best school to go after that. I had experience writing stories and had always been told my stories were good.

But I started taking journalism classes and working at the Missourian and got a slap in the face. I wasn’t as good as I thought. The first story I wrote was torn apart. And I wasn’t the best anymore. Everyone else was the editor-in-chief of their high school paper too.

My confidence was shaken. I began to question myself and analyze everything. Though I never stopped liking journalism, I figured I’m in it now, and I’ll do what I have to to stay in it.

So I guess I grew up with the myths that I was confident and independent. I thought I was sure of myself. But now a compliment from an editor about my work is one of my favorite things to hear.

I also think my fear of the future limits me. I like to have things planned out and I often think that everyone around me has grand plans for their lives that they’re already working on. I assume I’ll be doing something in the journalism field, and if I am, I hope that’s what I want. I’m not sure what I’m going to want.

I just don’t want my limits to stop me. I know I can be overly analytical and critical of myself, but I acknowledge that and hope I can use it to be better and do better work.

When I buy new jeans, I try them on with every pair of shoes I own. There are many factors to consider in the decision of whether to keep the jeans. Depending on the leg opening, the color, the length and the cut, they may not go with all my shoes. My mom says I’m too critical. I say there’s no reason I should own a pair of jeans I don’t like.