I recently saw this video on Jezebel and it reminded me of that defining moment we all hit when we realize that we might never be an astronaut:

I totes relate to the poor kid in the car seat. I only recently found out that some of the key adults in my life view my current job, which is actually exactly what I set out to do with myself, as some sort of pre-law school hobby.

“I understand,” says my father. “Everyone needs a year or two to dick around.”

I know my younger sister is getting hit hard as she waits on her college acceptance letters and deals with the occasional rejection or, worse, wait list. She also suffers from the same parentage, so she’s got that going for her, which is nice. Annie, too, wants to be a writer. We’re supportive, but I know we’re crossing our fingers that she’ll pick Johns Hopkins and find a doctor to marry for some kind of stability.

In fact, being a full-time writer is one of my more reasonable half-baked aspirations. I used to want to be a marine biologist and capture the first live giant squid. I wanted to be a professional ballet dancer. And I have boxes of VHS tapes at home that my oldest friend and I filmed — audition tapes, if you will — and tried to send to “The President.”

Whoever was Commandier-in-Chief at the time, we were convinced he was in charge of who got famous. It was somewhat of a rude awakening when I found the stash years later, never mailed, although I understand why our parents hesitated to send unmarked packages to “The White House, c/o The President, Washington, D.C.”

(Still, I’m convinced that had one of those tapes ever made it to the hands of even a low-level MTV exec, I’d have a standing invitation on the Real World).

And I’m thinking that in this recession, when even lawyer and engineer types are having trouble getting hired — and even being laid off — it’s more attractive than ever to shoot for the moon and try to make a career out of something you tinker with off the clock. Practicality isn’t paying all that well these days, anyway.

It’s Easter weekend — a time for miracles.

So I say sing it, little Losiah. And Annie, go wherever you want (though I could never fault you for getting mom her doctor).

I hope my friend Kaelie launches her clothing line and Lauren gives Los Angeles a shot. If it all crashes and burns, whatevs. At least we tried — maybe it’ll be fodder for my best-selling memoir.