Have you ever found yourself trying to become perfect at the wrong thing? I want to tell you a story about one of the many times I fell into that trap. At twenty-one years old, I walked out into the bright sun in a black robe and received my college diploma. I dreamt of being a writer, or starting a school someday. First, I really wanted to travel. So I went home, lived with my Mom, and got the best job I could find that would help me make a lot of money, fast: I became a knife saleswoman.

The way the knife business worked was that we were supposed to ask our parents for a list of names of potential buyers. My mother said, “I’m not going to let you con my friends into buying something.” My father said, “You have to do it the hard way. Get on that phone; make forty calls a day.” But without a list of names, who was I supposed to call? My lucky break came when I went to get a haircut. The stylist was young, gay, and happened to know a lot of other gay men who were doctors and architects, ones who were constantly remodeling their kitchens. He said, “I’ll give you a few names, Sister; don’t you worry. You’ll be selling more knives than late-night TV.”

Within a month, I was winning sales trophies and forgot that I was only selling knives to go traveling. I was way too busy competing with Victor Wong to become the top knife salesperson in the country. I even imagined that maybe I could do this for the long haul: be a writer, sure, but on the side, while selling knives. Then one day, on my way to visit my grandmother in her retirement home, the thought occurred to me that I could probably make a couple of sales while I was there. I imagined that my family would be horrified by what I had become, but when I confessed to my Dad that I thought of selling knives to helpless old ladies, he said, “That’s my girl!” Pleasing my father fueled my confusion as to what my path was supposed to be. Should I pursue a career in business?

One sticky, hot August afternoon, I had one more sales call to go. I knocked on the heavy door of a three-storied, red-bricked home. I felt like I had stood there before, long ago, in a Halloween costume. A woman dressed in a tailored gray blazer and skirt let me in. She had brown curly hair and glasses and was quite short. She only came up to my shoulder, but she seemed to tower over me with her suspicious stare and firm handshake. I asked for a tomato and a loaf of bread. I diced and sliced and decoratively coiled a penny into a pig’s tail with scissors. Then I looked down at my notes for the final question, “So, Mrs. Bartlett, do you want the Classic Carving set with scissors or the Holiday Carving set with a tomato trimmer?” Then I stopped. I knew that name. I suddenly knew exactly where I was. This was Noah Bartlett’s kitchen and I was pitching his mom a carving set.

Years ago, Noah and I were in a group of six students who were chosen to work independently with our own teacher, accelerating through elementary school. We thought we were invincible: a “Mission Impossible” team of nerds. We did everything together in those days: science fair projects, essay and public speaking contests, poetry readings and mock-trials. But as I grew older and hit puberty, I became less brave. Being apart of the Mission Impossible nerd team meant that I was different than all of the other kids. What I wanted most of all was to fit in with everyone. So I distanced myself from the nerds until I lost touch with them completely. I also lost touch with a part of me that I loved.

Now, thirteen years later, Noah’s mom looks at me hard and does not mince words, “Noah is in China. He is writing his second book with his Princeton professor. And you…you are selling knives!” She paused and looked at me with a mix of pity and judgment, “Don’t you have any ambition?”

The words stung. But it was a fair question. I had forgotten about the little girl that was winning Science Fair competitions and who loved to write poems and read them aloud at school assemblies. What was I doing? Working long hours to become the top knife-selling person in the country? If I was as smart as those teachers thought, why had I driven over a hundred miles yesterday to sell a bagel spreader?  But Mrs. Ziegler’s assumption was wrong; I had plenty of ambition. I also had a supercharged work ethic. What I was missing was self-awareness and the bravery to go after the things that I truly loved. I didn’t answer her question. Instead, I rolled up my red-felt demo cloth, asked her to give Noah my best, and left.

The next day, I called my supervisor, a man who only seemed to wear beige, and quit. My father, the businessman, almost cried when I handed him my sales trophies and told him I was through. My mother asked if she could use my demo knives in her kitchen while I was gone. I hopped on a plane with my backpack. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do after my travels.

Was I still haunted by Mrs. Ziegler’s question? Yes. But looking back, I see that I beat myself up way too much for not accomplishing more, and I spent too much time comparing myself to Noah and everyone else. What Mrs. Ziegler had described was Noah’s path. Who knew where that would take him? As Emerson said, “The voyage of the best ship sails a zigzag of a hundred tacks.”

My path has not been straight, but it has worked out really well. I am living a brave, magnificent life full of adventure while serving others. I pay more attention to where I put my ambition, and I no longer fantasize about selling bagel spreaders to old women in senior homes, thank goodness. But when I go home to visit my parents, there are still a few people who call me “The Knife Lady” and stop me at backyard BBQs to ask me to coil a penny with a pair of scissors. I usually do it. Why not? One good party trick is a terrible thing to waste.

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