In some dusty basement somewhere, there is a videotape of a kindergarten graduation ceremony. Set in the long-ago landscape of 1990, it shows a matronly teacher in polka dots interviewing a sea of children in itchy-looking formalwear. Though I couldn’t tell you exactly where to find it, there is a point on the video where this woman (who looks for all the world as though she smells of baby powder and cheap lipstick) asks a gap-toothed little girl with crimped hair and a crinoline what she wants to be when she grows up.
“A doctor,” the little girl chirps, pushing her giant plastic frames up on the bridge of her nose. A pause. “Or maybe a ballerina.”
I don’t think I need to tell you that the little girl never became a doctor. By telling you that the little girl grew up in a small town in Newfoundland that offered no dance training and that the puberty fairy decided to be extra generous with the secondary sex characteristics, I think you can probably infer that she never became a ballerina either. Some of the sharper among you have probably deduced that the little girl was me. (I bet you figured out the ending of “The Notebook” right away, didn’t you? You intellectual dynamos, you.)
As a way of introduction, I’m Lynn. I don’t have a fancy career. I’m not gifted in any particular way. I’m not possessed of ethereal beauty or even particularly good skin more than two weeks out of the month. That said, I like to write, and I’m told some people like to read it, so here I am, and (hopefully) here you are. I welcome readers and feedback from all walks of life.
Unless you’re a ballerina. Who likes “The Notebook”. Then you can go to hell.