Someone yesterday asked me if I could do anything, career wise, what would it be. I flippantly said I'd write a novel and become wildly famous. He pressed further, asking not for an outcome but for what I'd like to do on a daily basis. I take that to mean—what would be satisfying, what would be rewarding, what would make me happy.
And I realized. I'm 33 years old and I'm still struggling with the question I thought I'd figured out my sophomore year of college—What do I want to do with my life?
I've done all the personal stuff I always thought I'd do...get married, buy a house, have a child. But I've moaned and complained about every job I've ever had, whether it's the boring nature of the work, the lack of freedom, the bad management, whatever. I start to wonder if I will ever truly be happy.
I admitted to my friend that it wasn't about money, that I didn't really wish to be rich and famous. I think back to journalism school and how idealistic I was. I wanted to save the world. I wanted to make a difference. Didn't matter that I wouldn't make any money. Then I got my first job and struggled to pay bills, started smoking to calm my nerves from the daily deadline pressure, and wondered what the hell I'd gotten myself into. Covering cops, courts, and school board in a two-person newspaper office in a town of 10,000—I know you gotta start somewhere, but it seemed as though I missed the turn on the road to world salvation.
Doctors save lives. Lawyers defend peoples' rights. Teachers educate future generations. Soldiers, cops, firefighters, all risk their lives for others. What do I do? I'm just one writer/editor, making subjects and verbs agree and putting commas in the right place.
Since I left the world of journalism for "the dark side" of marketing/public relations, my work seems even more shallow. I do try to advance the mission of the major midwestern research university, producing publications that attract new students. But really, we're a major university, so how much influence do my words have, really, in the big scheme of things. Not like suddenly if I weren't here, no one would show up for the first day of classes. Not like some other schmoe couldn't step in and do what I do just as well, if not better.
I'm 33. I'm tired. And I'm feeling rather useless.
But it's Friday. Perhaps the spa weekend I've planned with my girlfriends for this weekend will give me time away to rejuvenate, get some perspective, clear my head. Gabbing and laughing, combined with a hot tub, a massage, and a bottle of champagne, can do wonders for the psyche.
So, what do I want to do with my life? Ask me again on Monday. Maybe I'll have a better answer.
And I realized. I'm 33 years old and I'm still struggling with the question I thought I'd figured out my sophomore year of college—What do I want to do with my life?
I've done all the personal stuff I always thought I'd do...get married, buy a house, have a child. But I've moaned and complained about every job I've ever had, whether it's the boring nature of the work, the lack of freedom, the bad management, whatever. I start to wonder if I will ever truly be happy.
I admitted to my friend that it wasn't about money, that I didn't really wish to be rich and famous. I think back to journalism school and how idealistic I was. I wanted to save the world. I wanted to make a difference. Didn't matter that I wouldn't make any money. Then I got my first job and struggled to pay bills, started smoking to calm my nerves from the daily deadline pressure, and wondered what the hell I'd gotten myself into. Covering cops, courts, and school board in a two-person newspaper office in a town of 10,000—I know you gotta start somewhere, but it seemed as though I missed the turn on the road to world salvation.
Doctors save lives. Lawyers defend peoples' rights. Teachers educate future generations. Soldiers, cops, firefighters, all risk their lives for others. What do I do? I'm just one writer/editor, making subjects and verbs agree and putting commas in the right place.
Since I left the world of journalism for "the dark side" of marketing/public relations, my work seems even more shallow. I do try to advance the mission of the major midwestern research university, producing publications that attract new students. But really, we're a major university, so how much influence do my words have, really, in the big scheme of things. Not like suddenly if I weren't here, no one would show up for the first day of classes. Not like some other schmoe couldn't step in and do what I do just as well, if not better.
I'm 33. I'm tired. And I'm feeling rather useless.
But it's Friday. Perhaps the spa weekend I've planned with my girlfriends for this weekend will give me time away to rejuvenate, get some perspective, clear my head. Gabbing and laughing, combined with a hot tub, a massage, and a bottle of champagne, can do wonders for the psyche.
So, what do I want to do with my life? Ask me again on Monday. Maybe I'll have a better answer.
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