What Kind of Girl

I really don't know what kind of girl I am.

So says Juno in Juno at the point where the film goes from overly-kitschy to beautiful. This is the moment where the dialogue moves from oh-my-gosh-did-she-really-just-say-"honest-to-blog"-please-stick-to-stripping-Diablo-Cody to art. 

Because that is every girl everywhere, sitting on that couch, facing her father, regardless of the extenuating circumstances, and not knowing who she is. It's every teenager. Heck, it's everyone. It's all of us—at the coffee shop with your best friend, a phone call to your mom, a late night moment when you sneak into your older sister's bedroom, looking into the mirror on your 25th birthday—when things just aren't turning out the way we thought they would.

I really don't know what kind of girl I am. 

I spent the last several weeks at work preparing for a conference. It was a big, regional event with over 30 important speakers. To prepare for the day, I put together a packet with photos and bios of each presenter. This is always my favorite part of a big event—collecting all the bios and organizing them, reading how each of these highly successful people choose to write about themselves in a short paragraph. Each has held several high-level positions with powerful corporations, they hold multiple degrees from top universities, they serve on the Board of Trustees to grand organizations. I'm fascinated by what they choose to include, and in what order, in how they present themselves to strangers.

And I wonder, when was their moment when they chose to say instead:

I really do know what kind of person I am.

There are days I know exactly who I am. I paint my toenails red, pull on my favorite tights and boots, curl my hair in messy waves, and knot a scarf. I present my designs and copy at meetings truly happy with what I've created.

And other days I wonder if I'm alone in the big sea of designers and writers who submit their work even when they aren't happy with the finished product, knowing a photo could use another hour of editing, submitting for a deadline even when the lines aren't just right in the bottom left corner. 

Those are the days I wonder, Do you really know what you are doing? Sometimes I slip on nylons and a blazer and those painfully pointy black pumps and try to look older. 

Maybe I'm still becoming the kind of girl I really am.