The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

I was five when it dawned on me - presumably over a coloring book or a carton of animal crackers - that my lifelong ambition of becoming a princess would probably never be fulfilled.

It was a disheartening revelation; I reacted by wailing deep, animalistic sobs and flinging crayons at a wall with an iron resolve. Iron, that is, until my mom intervened with the promise of ice cream, and I promptly forgot all about my shattered dreams. I blame Disney - it instilled me with delusions of yellow taffeta ball gowns and unattainably handsome princes.

Anyway, upon realizing my prospects of  a royal lineage were decidedly scant, I harbored many aspirations, all in quick succession of each other:  to be a scientist, a film director, a zookeeper, before lingering permanently on the most improbable one of all -  a writer.

Ever since, I’ve regarded the world with a sense of possibility. Heck, I can be a royal, scientific, film-directing, zoo-keeping writer. I can be anything.

All I have to do is kiss a few frogs.