Written: June 25, 2006
While I was sitting in the South Amtrak lounge at Union Station in Chicago and waiting for my train and thinking about being 22 and having no job leads or other prospects and wondering vaguely about my worth as a human being, I had the sense that I couldn't be alone in my minute existential crisis. Lots of my other recent-college-graduate friends are unemployed, living in their parents' houses, single, and unsure how to proceed going about their lives. Not to mention the hundreds of popular literary characters who have suffered anxiety over issues of identity and momentum. Other people must have felt, or must currently feel, stalled, lost, and without direction. And yet, it is such an inherently lonely feeling.
Some people are offered any job they apply for. I am not one of those people. At 19, I couldn't get a job working at Mrs. Field’s Cookies in the mall. At 20, I was hired to cashier at Office Depot, but waited three months to start training, and by then, I had stopped waiting. I have had three jobs. Two of them I got through pure nepotism. The third lasted only one semester. This is depressing, and yet, not as depressing as my relationship history (high school boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; college boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; and some unofficial affairs and week-long romances in between).
I went to college, yet I have no practical or measurable skills. I will never be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an architect, or a mechanic like my brother. My abilities are vague and hard to prove or demonstrate. I'm not exceptional at anything. I'm a decent writer and a fair public speaker, I was a passable student. I'm good at proofreading, and I was one of the best copy editors at my college paper.
I'm not remotely athletic, I can barely do simple addition without a calculator, and I've forgotten 90% of what I learned from studying Spanish for five years. I am not pretty. I am more sarcastic than charming. I'm not outgoing. I'm smart, but not in a useful way. I'm just intelligent enough to be constantly frustrated with the stupidity of others, but I don't have the brainpower to figure out what to do with myself. I don't feel I can compete in the job market, and I'm almost guaranteed to spend the bulk of my life single. I can't think of any reason for someone to want to hire or date me.
On the train, two women in front of me are chatting about daytime soap operas. Across the aisle, a young couple struggles to keep their two sons amused. And I'm trying to think of things I enjoy. Good plays, good books, good movies, the occasional smart TV show. Smoking weed and eating greasy food. Writing song lyrics, writing poems and plays. Writing in my journal. Sleeping late. Intellectual discussions with like-minded, well-meaning people. Laughing until it hurts about nothing. Directing plays. None of these activities seem like a plausible career.
I think I know I've always been this person. A loser, a loner, an ugly duckling, prone to excessive introspection and prolonged grief. Yet, I can't adjust to the idea of being this unsuccessful, lonely, and pathetic forever. I keep thinking that someday I'll get in shape, someday I'll find the right job, someday I'll find a man or woman and spend my life with them. And worrying that I will never do those things is what causes all my suffering.
Why can't I just accept my defeat?
Some people are offered any job they apply for. I am not one of those people. At 19, I couldn't get a job working at Mrs. Field’s Cookies in the mall. At 20, I was hired to cashier at Office Depot, but waited three months to start training, and by then, I had stopped waiting. I have had three jobs. Two of them I got through pure nepotism. The third lasted only one semester. This is depressing, and yet, not as depressing as my relationship history (high school boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; college boyfriend for 11 months, he broke up with me; and some unofficial affairs and week-long romances in between).
I went to college, yet I have no practical or measurable skills. I will never be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an architect, or a mechanic like my brother. My abilities are vague and hard to prove or demonstrate. I'm not exceptional at anything. I'm a decent writer and a fair public speaker, I was a passable student. I'm good at proofreading, and I was one of the best copy editors at my college paper.
I'm not remotely athletic, I can barely do simple addition without a calculator, and I've forgotten 90% of what I learned from studying Spanish for five years. I am not pretty. I am more sarcastic than charming. I'm not outgoing. I'm smart, but not in a useful way. I'm just intelligent enough to be constantly frustrated with the stupidity of others, but I don't have the brainpower to figure out what to do with myself. I don't feel I can compete in the job market, and I'm almost guaranteed to spend the bulk of my life single. I can't think of any reason for someone to want to hire or date me.
On the train, two women in front of me are chatting about daytime soap operas. Across the aisle, a young couple struggles to keep their two sons amused. And I'm trying to think of things I enjoy. Good plays, good books, good movies, the occasional smart TV show. Smoking weed and eating greasy food. Writing song lyrics, writing poems and plays. Writing in my journal. Sleeping late. Intellectual discussions with like-minded, well-meaning people. Laughing until it hurts about nothing. Directing plays. None of these activities seem like a plausible career.
I think I know I've always been this person. A loser, a loner, an ugly duckling, prone to excessive introspection and prolonged grief. Yet, I can't adjust to the idea of being this unsuccessful, lonely, and pathetic forever. I keep thinking that someday I'll get in shape, someday I'll find the right job, someday I'll find a man or woman and spend my life with them. And worrying that I will never do those things is what causes all my suffering.
Why can't I just accept my defeat?
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