I hit 5’2″ in eighth grade and never grew another inch. There was no way I’d ever be a fashion model.

Yet that-to the best of my recollection-was the first occupation that I ever wanted. I can even remember first grade, when our teacher had us draw figures of ourselves dressed for our future careers. Being a child of the `80s, I decked “myself” out in plastic jellies, bangles and lots of sequins (mind you, I was 6 years old). Somehow, that fashionable-and highly unlikely-career path was stomped before I even reached middle school.

Next, I turned my eyes to the occupation that all parents hope their children will pursue: medicine. Yes, like every other Filipino in the St. Louis area, I wanted to be a doctor. Did I realize that meant an extra four or five years of medical school, plus residency? Did I realize that meant possibly poking around someone’s insides and actually having to know what I was doing? Did I realize that life isn’t as exciting and thrilling as portrayed on “E.R.”? Of course not. But throughout high school, the idea of being a doctor wasn’t completely unappealing.

Then there were the brief infatuations with other career paths: being an FBI agent (an idea spurred on by Tom Clancy novels and The Silence of the Lambs); being a lawyer (influenced by the idea that having money might come in handy); being a writer (ha); being a hockey player (ha, ha); being a hockey player’s wife; and finally, being a reporter.

The last one makes sense: I’ve been a member of The University News for the past four years, so pursuing a career in media seems natural. But as rewarding as it is having worked with a staff of gifted and talented students to produce an issue every week, I can’t see myself doing it on a daily basis without losing my mind. That seems to be the key factor in figuring out what any of us wants to do with our lives.

So now, after four years of college, the question remains: What do I ultimately want to do? With all due respect to the business school, I find myself sitting in finance classes thinking, “Why am I here?” Luckily, I can take solace in my music classes, but the idea of becoming a professional musician is a long shot. This year, unfortunately, I realized that’s exactly what I want to be.

Why unfortunately? For numerous-and extremely practical-reasons: Professional musician hopefuls typically attend music conservatories or schools with reputable music programs. They typically don’t stop taking private lessons, as I did a few years ago. They typically commit themselves to practicing hours on end and entering in as many competitions as possible. At the ripe age of 21, I’ve got the terrible feeling that I’m too old to embark on this professional path.

Yet there is one more characteristic of professional musicians that gives me hope: a true love for classical music. While other students flocked to the Pageant or Mississippi Nights, I wandered in the other direction-namely, further up Grand Boulevard, to Powell Symphony Hall. The number of concerts I attended this year outnumbers the number of times I’ve gone to the movies during the past four years. Usually I ended up sitting among strangers, and though the median age of the audience was probably 50-plus, I never felt out of place. Sitting among the plush red-velvet seats always felt more comfortable. Still, there is another seat that I would have preferred-on stage, as a performer.

Even though I won’t be working as a musician, I’ve at least found a job in an environment surrounded by music. Settling for reality now doesn’t mean giving up a dream. Our reach should exceed our grasp; or what’s heaven for? Yes, Carnegie Hall may be an impossibility, but there’s no harm in aiming high.

Diana Umali is a senior studying finance and music. She has served as editor in chief of The University News for two years.