In third grade, I had to choose a musical instrument to play. After assessing the pros and cons of every possible instrument, I told my mother I wanted to play the violin. Five minutes later, I started to worry, “Does this mean I’ll never play the flute?”
When I had to choose which colleges to apply to, I made an initial list of 109 schools and devised my own ranking system using 13 different-colored magic markers. I eventually settled on Tulane University, the “Harvard of the South” and the esteemed alma mater of such notables as Ruth Ginsberg, Newt Gingrich, and Jerry Springer. It was a complex decision, but the key selling points were warm weather, an unenforced drinking age, and the fact that I could go there for free.
I assumed the tough decision was behind me and I could procrastinate for a few years before declaring a major. But then Tulane informed me that if I wanted to enter the School of Architecture, I had to decide right away. It seemed ridiculous that they would expect me to know whether or not I wanted to be an architect. I had to go to the library to find out what an architect actually did (Google came into existence about a month later). I tried to imagine myself conducting feasibility studies, preparing drawings, and developing construction plans. I seem to remember borrowing a T-square and sketching a few ugly buildings. In the end, I went with the odds. Between “Architect” and “Not Architect,” I figured my calling probably fell into the latter.
Years later, I lived in a high-rise located directly across from the Chrysler Building. The apartment offered an up-close view of the elaborate silver crown with its seven terraced arches. Every time I looked out the window, I felt a pang of regret.
I used to say that nothing was out of the question, but the older I get, the harder it is to lie to myself. Realistically, I will probably never design an art deco skyscraper. Or go to an Ivy League institution. But, hey, I might still learn to play the flute.