When I was a young dork, there were a few things I loved; reading books instead of making real friends, my rock-polishing kit, and the shows Ghostwriter and Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Ghostwriter is another story for another day. Today is the day to bemoan my parents' grave waste of talent, their misdirection of over-protection, in never having got me a try-out for that latter, but by no means lesser, show.
I was the best at-home player you've never seen. That phony accent means RUSSIA! Isn't there a city called Prague? The clue is going for Prague! Rockapella needs my help!
And yet it never happened for me. And for some reason or other they won't let me try now (reason some: the show no longer exists, reason other: I am now 24).
In college, I met a kid, surprisingly down to Earth given his brush with the upper echelons of fame, who had not only starred on, but had won an episode of Carmen Sandiego (I keep his identity a secret because he values his privacy, which has, in some small part, started to return).
It coulda been me. I coulda been a contender. But my parents, convinced that puberty would somehow be worse if they pushed me, all the extra rolls of stomach and braces and glasses of me, into the limelight, instead kept me from realizing my full potential, my true ability to run around a big map painted on the floor, leaving flags in the conveniently cut-out holes corresponding to a city or country.
And that is far worse than puberty
-Posted by Jilly
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
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I am going to challenge the content of this post. I submit that having been on Where In the World Is Carmen Sandiego is worse than puberty!
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