What do you want to be when you grow up?

Autumn is officially here. The air is crisp with the precursor to winters chill. The trees weep tears of gold and orange and brown. This is probably my favorite time of year; wrapping myself up snug in a blanket, with a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other, I feel more relaxed than at any other time of year. I also get reflective, as I'm sure many others do. So I find myself contemplating years past and dreams unfulfilled. I have a question for you:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

When I was a child, I wanted to be an environmental scientist. At the time, Captain Planet was my favorite television show. I'd record every episode on vhs tapes and watched them over and over and over again. I'm pretty sure my mom got sick of me running around the house, yelling "go planet!" at all hours. I'd give stern lectures to the neighborhood kids about the selfishness of littering, of how their waste was killing the planet.

As you can imagine, I didn't make many friends.

Time went by, and I mostly grew out of that phase. Or rather, I just became more subtle. I realized after a while that no one likes being preached at, no matter how worthy the cause; get in peoples faces enough, and they'll eventually hate whatever you endorse. After all, no one likes being told what to do and how to think.

Eventually I changed my mind about becoming an environmental scientist (whatever that is); while I slipped the bonds of sheer fanaticism, I'm happy to say that I didn't loss the desire to save the world. I still care about the environment, and as a result am far less anthropocentric than the majority of people I know. Anthropocentrism is one of the roots of my misanthropy, but that's a rant for another day.

When I was in middle school, and just entering my teen years, I joined a drama class on a lark (and by lark, I mean I needed a creative arts credit) and discovered the grand world of acting. And during that year, my desire changed.

"When I grow up," I thought to myself. "I want to be an actor."

In that nearly forgotten drama class, I discovered a side of myself that I was previously unaware of. For the first time since I was little hell raiser, I had found something I could be passionate about again. In a play, I could fall into someone else's life; like a shapeshifter, I could assume a different form. I could be a king, or a murderer or beggar or a god. At times it was hard. But it was always fun.

I carried that passion with me when I went to high school. I fell in with the theatre nerds, and felt right at home. It was a wonderful time in my life; my greatest concern was getting to class on time, and cramming for a random test that I had forgotten about (ignored) until the day before. After classes ended, it was off to the theatre department to rehearse or goof off. It was good times.

College was a rude awakening for me. My faith in my acting ability was cracked when I witnessed people with far greater ability than myself perform; I was a guppie transported to a large lake, a lake with much bigger and hungrier fish. It was also in college that I discovered that awful truism that serves to shake the foundation of so many young actors: the business is a ruthless, cutthroat entity. Actors good and bad, with talents great, small and nonexistent all desperately struggled to climb to the top, to get roles and recognition.

Most don't.

Still, I held my own for a good long while. At first I auditioned and auditioned, only to be rejected time and time again. After a while, as my craft was polished and I became more skilled, I was cast in roles. Some bigger than others, but I was acting.

My downfall came once I allowed the prospects of going out into the cold, harsh world and plying my trade, of joining the rat race, of being lined up in a potentially endless parade of cattle calls and being judged suitable for a role based solely on how I looked or how tall I was or any number of details get the best of me. I let fear slip into my heart and take root.

And like that, I abandoned my second passion.

Oh, it's still there, burning like a feeble ember in a vast darkness. But I don't seem to have the courage to breath on it; doing so would mean having to actually try, and that's out of the question. My inner C-3PO keeps spouting the odds of success, and my inner Han Solo is absent, probably off somewhere making out with my inner Leia or shooting Greedo or whatever that charming bastard does when he isn't telling inner C-3PO to shut the hell up. Han is an ass.

Look at this smug bastard.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? At this point, I honestly don't know.