Youngbloods

It's hard to estimate how many times a child is asked the quintessential what do you want to be when you grow up? question throughout the years. When I was six years old I used to tell people that I wanted to be a paleontologist. Yes, I had a weird obsession with dinosaurs. No, I was not a boy. My other childhood career fantasies included becoming a pro tennis player, an artist, a dolphin trainer or a librarian, but above all I aspired to unearth dinosaur bones on archaeological digs.


RIP, thugs.

My prehistoric pipe dream began to fade only when I realized that I was absolutely terrible at science. I could love dinosaurs all I wanted, but my childhood fascination didn't transcend my shortcomings in biology or chem class.

It's funny how our physical or mental limitations simply don't register in elementary school but as we age they become fundamentally detrimental to our identity. In the eyes of a second-grader, the sky is the limit, the future is wide open, and even the shortest kid in class believes that one day he'll be the next Michael Jordan.  Conversely, in the eyes of a second-semester senior in college, it's our grade point averages, networking skills and résumés that matter much more than our dreams. In honor of my imaginary paleontology career and all the other dream jobs out there, I asked a few other seniors what they really wanted to be when they grew up:

• a ballerina
• a rockstar
• a chef
• a brain surgeon
• a firetruck (truck, not fighter)
• The President of the United States
• an astronaut
• a professional soccer player
• a Broadway dancer
• a robot

Dream on, kids.