I worry- closing in on the two-year mark of being a “job hunter”- that people might start getting the wrong idea about me. Not the cool kind of wrong idea- like assuming that because I’m hunting for something in a harsh climate I have my own Discovery channel series. The bad kind of wrong idea: that I am an unemployed, un-dateable basement-dweller.
But then I realized our basement is inaccessible, thank God. So people need not worry about me lurking around down there with other jobless, mateless contemporaries playing games involving rolling dice, inventing your own fantasy world, and giving yourself superpowers and titles with the -lord suffix (i.e. troll-lord, dungeon-lord, faerie-lord, et al). Incidentally, the attic is also a not a possibility for the less-than-mobile, so I will not likely become the unfortunate minor character in a modernized Jane Eyre Lifetime miniseries, either.
So, rest assured. I am not a (complete/total) loser and it could be worse.
Today, I was contemplating my [hypothetical and without basis in reality] career path, and whether to force a new one out of the brush and brambles, when I got to thinking about kids. I love the way kids think- they are often uninhibited, having yet to modify their thought processes in more “adult” or “mature” ways with devices like practicality, reason, and the like.
Most kids want to be awesome things when they grow up: an astronaut, a cowboy, a ballerina, a princess, the President of the United States, or- one of my favorite answers from an old America’s Funnies Home Videos submission- a Vampire Bat. These are great ideas. All of them are fun, all are somewhat glamorous, and they all have the potential to make you somewhat of a celebrity in certain circles.
However, all of those career options are also high-stress, have unforgiving hours, and are more than a little dangerous. This makes me wonder: does Adulthood know best? Granted, I never wanted to be any of those things (although I once had a grown man who was trying to impress me try to convince me he was a retired astronaut). The idea of being rocketed into oblivion, twirling around in very little clothing in front of hundreds of people, and herding giant livestock are all terrifying to me. And let’s face it- if it’s between ruling a nation of somesort or taking your parents’ advice and following up with your neighbor’s cousin’s boss about whether she got your resume- we all know you have much less chance being assassinated doing something Mom and Dad recommend to you.
But I’m not totally resigned to the practical. Because, frankly, my dear, the practical doesn’t suit me.
I have no answers; no conclusions; no explanations; no awe-inspiring epiphanies. I only know one thing: what I want to be for the rest of my life lies somewhere on the normalcy spectrum: somewhere far away from Suited Worker Drone, but far nearer to normal than space exploration, wrangling, or nocturnal blood-sucking.
Take a moment to envy my clarity. And say hey to your roommate, your significant other, and your boss for me. Fax me sometime when you’re free for lunch.