Yesterday, I ventured into (onto?) Long Island to play tennis with my friend Jen -- at her house, nonetheless. It's been quite a while since my last visit to the island, though I've definitely spent many a Jewish holiday and Bar Mitzvah in East Meadow. Jen's town, Old Westbury, is absolutely gorgeous, expansive properties separated by trees and beautiful neighborhoods interrupted only by country clubs. The nearby Hicksville train station was decorated by hordes of wealthy nine-year-old boys, all ostentatiously clad in their faux-ghetto attire.
Perhaps one day, when I've become the Andrea Mitchell of print/online journalism, I'll be able to afford such things. Until then, I'll just hope that next year's cardboard box has running water.
I'm certainly grateful to my parents for being such overly generous providers, including this year's rent and tuition in New York City. Living with Dr. Mom and Dr. Dad, I've been so lucky throughout my entire life -- able to have almost anything I ever needed or even wanted. And family vacations were no tent in the woods; in fact, five-star hotels were rather customary accommodations. I'll be forever thankful to my parents for the financial ease by which I glided through childhood.
But was this a tease?
I could've gone to med school, I could've been in Wharton. Hey, maybe I even could have been a chemical engineer like my brother. And in all of those careers I'd be making six-figures rather quickly. But I'd be quite unhappy. The truth is, I've loved writing since I first learned how to fingerpaint in pre-school, and journalism is an exciting (albeit dying) field, where I can explore the world and report back in words.
I wonder, however, am I pursuing my dreams at the expense of the comfortable life I have always known?