Failure

When I was young, my path in life seemed clear and obvious--that "other" box for "author." I was going to be a writer and illustrator of children's books.

Then I got a little older and I amended my path somewhat, but it was still perfectly straightforward. I was going to live in a loft in Manhattan and be a reporter for the New York Times. Such wonderful naivete.

And why not? In the school years, my goals were simple and accomplished with relative ease. Good grades. Honor society. Yearbook editor. Scholarships. But that world was smaller and achievement only required brainpower combined with sufficient application of effort.

So I had my "quarter-life crisis" when I realized, at 25, that I was not a reporter, not living in a loft and not living in Manhattan.

I was a failure. A "failure." With and without quotes.

But what an amazing journey "failure" becomes.

I failed to remain, as I had once adamantly declared, childless. Failed spectacularly, in fact. Now I have the girl of the world.

I failed to stay in journalism and began a 10-year-plus career on the web.

I failed to move to New York and lived in Miami, Virginia, DC and Maryland.

I failed to marry a tall, blonde boy and found instead my non-tall, non-blonde half-Korean hubby (which he will tell you, tongue mostly in cheek, is his superior half).

I failed to become a writer.

Or did I?

I wonder what I'll fail at next?