When all you think about is escaping, it probably means you do not like restraint.
I am jelly.
I have no structure, no ability to be restrained, confined or molded. It is no surprise I find difficulty in working jobs I am neither passionate about the product nor the role supporting the product. I know, I know,
“Suck it up.”
I am just not destined to have parameters set up by others.
I need to find my own bread to reside in and, when the pressure is on, be able to seep out the sides and explore the rest of my plate.
Basically, I cannot be contained in any physical or mental state unless I decide it is best for me. Some might call me a control freak (Comparing myself to jelly, I’d like to think I’m a little more flexible than “control freak” status).
Let me take you to the origin of my journey to self- discovery:
When I was a toddler, my mother made the mistake of dressing me in tights for church. Considering the temperatures in our hometown were below -10ºF from Fall to Spring, I can see where she was coming from for even my thick layers of baby fat wouldn’t protect me.
But dear God.
Apparently, I turned into the baby-she-hulk of everyone’s nightmares.
I was a troubled child.
After the first time she tried to put tights on my pudgy, baby “Michelin Man” legs (I didn’t even want my fat contained in any sensible way), she learned the necessity of buying back-up packs of tights.
Because I would scream and cry like some banshee with a vendetta against all things panty-hose. My pudgy, little baby hands turned into predatory claws, ripping through the fabric and shredding the tights as if I knew once they were on, they’d never come off and I would die swallowed whole by feminine toddler fashion (the real crime was the goddamn velvet dresses with lace).
So, after the first pair was shredded, my mom would get the second pair.
First pair of a new pack.
Basically, she knew the only way to get tights on my amorphous, fatty legs was to wait until I was too tired to fight.
But kids grow. I drank my goddamn milk and grew stronger.
The casualties of tights kept getting higher and higher every time I entered battle.
Eventually, I stopped giving a shit (around age 8) and just started wearing them but paying no heed to their fragility. Literally, I would make sure I destroyed them while wearing them so my mother would continue to learn I hated tights.
To analyze all the reasons I hated tights, I can tell you it was only because I hated restraint. I wanted to be as mobile as possible.
So, I am jelly. I cannot be molded into anything. I just need to be myself and spread into any opportunity that will compliment my flavor. This is why I need to torture myself with the GMAT and further education.