I recently realized where I went wrong: I wasn’t knocked up in high school. Nor was I an adolescent alcoholic. And no sexual dalliances were ever leaked online. My dysfunctions were never exploited for public entertainment, and certainly not so by my momager. Wow, I was am boring. And boring is definitely not profitable. But perhaps in my next lifetime I will come back as a much more trashy version of myself and cash in on my indiscretions.

The latest person who has found fame and fortune through pure poor decision making is Farrah Abraham from MTV’s series Teen Mom. I’m all in favor of the network airing the young mothers’ struggles in an effort to decrease teen pregnancies and to help steer kids toward positive change. But somehow the intentions have been distorted. For one thing, more than several of these young women have put their financial gains into breast implants and hair extensions. Initially, I thought this was idiotic, but now I view the strategy as ingenious. With flowing hair and bouncing boobs, Farrah has landed her own spin off. And more disturbing, she has reportedly penned a New York Times Bestseller called My Teenage Dream Ended.

Yeah, my teenage dream ended as well.  But the only thing I came close to birthing in high school was an ulcer. That’s when I was holed up in the library, having given up my lunch period, to study. I committed every afternoon, and sometimes early mornings, to one of my three varsity sports practices. I recall Saturday nights dedicated to SAT vocabulary words and college essay writing. And I completed my community service hours, not because it looked good on those applications but because I enjoyed the effort. This is what I was doing instead of getting high and sleeping around– but that memoir would not be a bestseller.

So perhaps with degrees from my tony New York City private school, Harvard College and Tufts University, I’m not that wise and worldly after all. I could have spent my more formative years shirking responsibility and profiting from the outcome. My bucket list would have been so much more interesting.

Instead, being responsible has proved quite dull and sometimes draining. Just ask Kate Middleton, who bears the burden now of no longer being able to sunbathe topless. It’s hard to be a gorgeous royal role model who is allowed to do no wrong!

No, I don’t aspire to be Farrah or Snooki or a Kardashian, and I most definitely don’t want to raise a Honey Boo Boo. But it would be nice to have been a little (ok, a lot) less reserved. My parents always said that I was born thirty-five. And not a free-spirited thirty-five. So that would put me at pushing seventy-one. I had better get living then!

Today I am going nuts. Throwing caution to the wind. I’m blowing off responsibility and treating myself to something completely unproductive and frivolous.  I’m off to enjoy a foot massage– one that includes back, neck and shoulders to boot.

I just need to switch the laundry and make those damn beds first.