This is my common app essay. I think it falls under option 1, which says "Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you," but let me know if you think it only falls under the catch-all option 6.
Before reading, please consider the title, and, if you can think of a more clever one, please tell me.
My 1986 Camaro
Growing up - the concept disgusted me. I was accustomed to freeloading through life: school for nine months and slacking off for the other three. When my adolescence finally ended, I knew the fun would inevitably stop. I would be yet another drone, buzzing my life away in the hive that is adulthood. Yet, even at the age of fourteen, I knew that my then blissful, worry-free stage in life had to end eventually. Not because I felt myself maturing, or as a result of some striking epiphany, but because my parents (of course) thought it was time I found a job.
But I wouldn't acquiesce to their wishes so easily. No, what I needed was a way to stick it to my parents - some way to prevent myself from becoming a wizened old hat, like they obviously wanted. In short order, I schemed the perfect plan to accomplish my objective: I would spend every last dollar on a Chevrolet Camaro - red, with a rudely loud engine under the hood. By my impeccable fourteen-year-old logic, it was perfect. Wasting all my money on a gas-guzzling potential death hazard would surely offset any accidental "growing up" that I'd done in earning it. My precious immaturity would be saved, and my parents would be sufficiently irritated.
Of course, I still had to put up my end of the deal. There would be no Camaro until I had paychecks directed my way. So, like the typical Midwestern teenager, I detasseled seed corn. Sure enough, and as my parents undoubtedly foresaw, detasseling was chock-full of such treacheries as "character-building" and "real-world experience." Every day, from five a.m. to around two, I slogged through my seemingly endless rows, systematically neutering corn plant after corn plant. However, I won't digress with assertions of martyrdom. In the end, I managed to survive the experience, buy my red Camaro, and, despite my disagreeable attitude, make some new friends.
Life behind the wheel of my rumbling muscle car was nothing short of pure bliss. I was a child with a brand new toy, revving my engine and tearing up the road. Speed limits were meaningless - applicable only to lesser cars. The sound of the engine was more melodious than even the most beautiful symphony. My Camaro fulfilled my every expectation, and gave me a sense of power unequaled by anything I had ever felt. Nothing could stop me; I had the keys to a four-wheeled, living, breathing monster.
Within a few months, however, my grand scheme began to implode. A plethora of obstacles that I hadn't considered began to impede my naïve pursuit. I had to shell out hundreds of dollars for gasoline, insurance bills, and enough replacement parts to build another complete car, the sum of which dropped me into a pit of debt to my parents. I realized in one striking sweep that my plan had been blatantly irrational all along, which left me burdened with a difficult decision. I could continue on my current path, or I could make the mature, adult choice: to sell the Camaro and start anew. Although it pained me to see my beloved car go, I finally settled on the reasonable decision.
In the end, my irresponsible adolescence did come to a close, but not in the way anyone expected. Who would have guessed that owning a muscle car, not long days in a cornfield, would cause me to put my life in line? I didn't know it at the time, but by deciding to sell my Camaro, I took the first step on the long journey to responsible adulthood. My fourteen-year-old self would have never believed it, but being an adult is not so bad after all. I'm not "yet another drone, wasting my life away." No, I am on the path to becoming an unabashed, self-proclaimed grown-up, and it no longer disgusts me to say so.
Thanks for your input
Before reading, please consider the title, and, if you can think of a more clever one, please tell me.
My 1986 Camaro
Growing up - the concept disgusted me. I was accustomed to freeloading through life: school for nine months and slacking off for the other three. When my adolescence finally ended, I knew the fun would inevitably stop. I would be yet another drone, buzzing my life away in the hive that is adulthood. Yet, even at the age of fourteen, I knew that my then blissful, worry-free stage in life had to end eventually. Not because I felt myself maturing, or as a result of some striking epiphany, but because my parents (of course) thought it was time I found a job.
But I wouldn't acquiesce to their wishes so easily. No, what I needed was a way to stick it to my parents - some way to prevent myself from becoming a wizened old hat, like they obviously wanted. In short order, I schemed the perfect plan to accomplish my objective: I would spend every last dollar on a Chevrolet Camaro - red, with a rudely loud engine under the hood. By my impeccable fourteen-year-old logic, it was perfect. Wasting all my money on a gas-guzzling potential death hazard would surely offset any accidental "growing up" that I'd done in earning it. My precious immaturity would be saved, and my parents would be sufficiently irritated.
Of course, I still had to put up my end of the deal. There would be no Camaro until I had paychecks directed my way. So, like the typical Midwestern teenager, I detasseled seed corn. Sure enough, and as my parents undoubtedly foresaw, detasseling was chock-full of such treacheries as "character-building" and "real-world experience." Every day, from five a.m. to around two, I slogged through my seemingly endless rows, systematically neutering corn plant after corn plant. However, I won't digress with assertions of martyrdom. In the end, I managed to survive the experience, buy my red Camaro, and, despite my disagreeable attitude, make some new friends.
Life behind the wheel of my rumbling muscle car was nothing short of pure bliss. I was a child with a brand new toy, revving my engine and tearing up the road. Speed limits were meaningless - applicable only to lesser cars. The sound of the engine was more melodious than even the most beautiful symphony. My Camaro fulfilled my every expectation, and gave me a sense of power unequaled by anything I had ever felt. Nothing could stop me; I had the keys to a four-wheeled, living, breathing monster.
Within a few months, however, my grand scheme began to implode. A plethora of obstacles that I hadn't considered began to impede my naïve pursuit. I had to shell out hundreds of dollars for gasoline, insurance bills, and enough replacement parts to build another complete car, the sum of which dropped me into a pit of debt to my parents. I realized in one striking sweep that my plan had been blatantly irrational all along, which left me burdened with a difficult decision. I could continue on my current path, or I could make the mature, adult choice: to sell the Camaro and start anew. Although it pained me to see my beloved car go, I finally settled on the reasonable decision.
In the end, my irresponsible adolescence did come to a close, but not in the way anyone expected. Who would have guessed that owning a muscle car, not long days in a cornfield, would cause me to put my life in line? I didn't know it at the time, but by deciding to sell my Camaro, I took the first step on the long journey to responsible adulthood. My fourteen-year-old self would have never believed it, but being an adult is not so bad after all. I'm not "yet another drone, wasting my life away." No, I am on the path to becoming an unabashed, self-proclaimed grown-up, and it no longer disgusts me to say so.
Thanks for your input