A moment with my shattered dreams

Like any other child, I've had a lot of dreams about what I'd like my life to be like. Frustratingly, because of my allergy, most of them are going to be impossible.

I wanted to be a daycare worker.

I was only in daycare a few months, and most of the time I had a rash somewhere on my body. But there was something attractive about it, something fun, and I decided that when I was old enough to get a job I was going to work at a daycare center.

Which I now know I can't do because of snack time, and because little kids are often fed treats with peanuts before their parents bring them in. So I'd need to find a daycare that was entirely peanut-free.

I wanted to be a babysitter.

You can blame this one on the Babysitters Club books I used to read. But I can't do this one for the same reason I can't be a daycare worker, and also because no one is going to want to wipe down all the possibly nut-contaminated surfaces in their house to accommodate the teenager who's going to watch their kids for a few hours.

I wanted to be a flight attendant.

Flying seemed glamorous and cool, and what better way to see the world? But, of course, there's the whole they-serve-peanuts-on-airplanes problem, not to mention that I'd have to eat at restaurants and I'm extremely uncomfortable eating food I haven't made myself.

I wanted to be an actress.

I'm allergic to makeup. Which sucks, because I think I'd look great in green eye shadow. 

I wanted to have a summer job.

I can't work with food. At all. I can't serve it, I can't bag it, I can't stack it on the shelves. So that means the only stores I could possibly get hired at would be ones that sell clothing or electronics, both sought-after jobs that someone else always got first.

I wanted to be a vet.

Cat allergy.

I wanted to work in a pet store.

Cat allergy. And allergy to wood chips.

So, after careful consideration, I decided to become a writer.

How am I doing?