Musings: 1.0

I thought I’d be a writer. Stories have danced through my head for as long as I can remember—plots brimming with twists, characters full of depth, love stories featuring dashing heroes, and broken hearts finding solace. When I was in elementary school around the 3rd grade, they tested all the kids to predict their future careers. Mine was writing. “Alena’s most likely career path is writing”. I have no idea the metrics used in that test, and taking it was a blur, but I do remember seeing the results and thinking it might be a cool thing. To be a writer. 

Time passed and I did write. I wrote poetry, deep, dark, and sad. I penned sappy country love songs about love's inevitable heartbreaks. I started a romance novel around 19 years old and made decent headway before life distracted me. It was good, at least I believed it was.  I’ve thought recently about unearthing it, as an intriguing plot twist has taken root in my mind and I think it might have legs. But the fear it’s instead paralyzed from the waist down and I have no right to dream of tapping away on a keyboard is enough to keep me from going upstairs and rummaging through my box of forgotten words. But if I did, wouldn’t that be the twists of all plots? Alena Segura, finally finds her calling; in the midst of middle age.

My “career” has had more plot twists than a Harlan Coben novel. Singer/Songwriter, cosmetic sales, makeup artist, employed by temp agencies multiple times for secretarial work. Front office person for various Doctors’ offices. That was the worst as my paranoia got the best of me convincing me I had every illness that patients walked in with. It got to the point that I had to be on anxiety meds and cried in the parking lot in my car every morning before going inside. All for shitty pay. 

I temped for a new home builder which led to a full-time gig and moved to another builder for a similar gig. Then became office support for a Real Estate Agency. A brief venture into sales was the biggest bust of them all. That one stung the most because I honestly thought I’d excel at it. But that was just another one of my delusions. In my personal script, I forgot to include crucial character traits like likability, an over-the-top bubbly attitude, and an uncanny ability to bullshit—essential skills for a successful salesperson. Unless of course you’re my husband and were born with every possible sales trait needed to become incredibly successful at it.

I’m a glorified housewife, a domestic CEO. At 45, I’m an out-of-work wife and mom with laundry tumbling in the washing machine. I type away on my MacBook while my Roomba circles endlessly, vacuuming and mopping our too-big house, which we share with a senior Border Collie. But my pride and joy is our son, my greatest accomplishment. At 23, he’s navigating a self-made career in the Big Apple, making me giddy with pride. The true writer in our family is him. By the age of 18, he had written not one but two books. Though he’s not a best-selling author, he did it—self-published, no less—and that book opened the doors to where he is today.

Did I mention I’m learning Italian? Because, you know, self-improvement. I must have something of notability under my belt. My only party trick can’t be how I can open a bottle of champagne fairly effortlessly, with little to no sound. But, I must admit, it always makes quite the impression. This fall I plan to enjoy an Aperol Spritz on the Amalfi Coast perhaps less than effortlessly conversing with locals.

The washing machine chimes telling me it’s time to transfer the clothes to the dryer. I think about how one day I long to live in Italy or France where I might have to hang my clothes on a line to dry and it sounds like a small price to pay for the romance of European living. But for now, I embrace the all-American routine, moving laundry from one machine to the other. Yet, in the back of my mind, the allure of cobblestone streets and sun-drenched seaside villages whisper promises of a future filled with possibilities.