I have spent the past four months achieving nothing of great importance. The idle hiatus of not having a proper job has caused me to seriously re-evaluate what I want to do with my life and has confronted me with the reality of my situation.
As it is, I am a college graduate who possesses a B.A. in Literature with a minor in French; this makes me twice as likely to remain unemployed. Should I go back to college to take out a Masters, I would need to aim for a career that will at least provide me with a stable source of sufficient income.
I won't sugarcoat it: I've felt completely useless at times. Despite having previous work experience, despite having an admirable level of intelligence, despite being fluent in three languages, I just fear that I will never find a job which will fully grant me a much needed financial peace.
Then again, I suspect that my failure is also tied to my unrealistic expectations of life. I've always considered myself to be a dreamer whose head spends far too much time cruising the vast skies and studying the composition of masses of fluffy suspended things. It's this imagination that will unfortunately create an impediment for me to secure a respectable career.
I'm at a crossroads in my life. I am young but I but I don't know what to do with my youth. I wander aimlessly. I occasionally stumble on a notion of what appears to be a brilliant idea only to divert once again. I linger at the threshold of adulthood while still clinging to my past puerile expectations of following my heart. Perhaps in a few years, I will find some balance to this. This might include finding a husband who, with my help, will have enough money to support the French brats we might hypothetically spawn.
Still, a girl can dream about what she would like to do...
Why not? I had a pleasant melodious voice when I was a kid.
Oh. There is a reason why I use the past tense. The melodious quality is gone. I now sound like a creature of what would result from a frog if it mated with a cat, and that creature possesses a relentless sore throat. Yet somehow the manner in which my voice resonates as I sing in the shower makes me believe that I could still do this job.
(You have my permission to mock my cartoon's lack of boobs.)
I picture myself of being a mixture of Shakira, Lady Gaga and Carly Simon. I've even thought of my stage name: BAB$! The Dollar sign and the exclamation mark will be necessary when magazine journalists clamour for the interviews they want to publish. I would have tons of adoring fans who fund my hot-ticket sold-out shows. My face and name would be glued on every printable surface available.
And I mean every surface...
Yet in these days, a mega-star singer has to be a multi-faceted entrepreneur. A singer has to not only belt out songs on command but also design and sell their own clothing line, make guest appearances on T.V. shows, endorse soft drinks, sign their hair to a contract, write autobiographical books, start a perfume line and sell their own brand of computers.
I just want to be a singer, not remove the jobs that other people could do more efficiently. Besides, I'm far too lazy to do all of that.
When I was young, I dreamed of going out in the desert and digging up dinosaur bones. Perhaps I would even find a new species and name it after myself!
Except, growing up, I hit a couple of hitches that stopped my paleontologist goal in its tracks: I hate the heat, and I tan easily.
3. Reality T.V. Show Host
Screw being a contestant who willing humiliates himself in front of millions of captive viewers. I'll be the host so I can at least give the impression that I am the sane one among the crowd of 20-something contestants who are fighting to not be kicked off the show.
Not to be confused with astrologer (Aries: You will find the true love of your life, and he will be too stupid to keep you. You'll marry someone else).
If it weren't for all the math involved, I would happily sit behind a telescope at NASA and gaze up at the sea of stars dotting across the celestial universe.
Ha, ha. Yeah, right.
6. Ice Cream Taster
Sure, I'd gain
2,500 pounds a couple of pounds but, COME ON. The job title is self-explanatory!
Hey, if Stephanie Meyers can achieve fame buy milking people's hard-earned money with her human/vampire/werewolf love triangle, how hard could it be?
Lately, however, I've noticed that my English skillz (yes, with a Z) have diminished under my eyes. I look at the old essays I crafted during my high school years and I'm thoroughly shocked that I was even capable of composing something of that verbose caliber. I admit it: ever since I crossed my high school doors for the last time, the once-avid reader has disintegrated into an uncultured being I hardly recognize.
With much alarm, I've noticed that my level of vocabulary has lowered as I constantly reach the dictionary to verify the definition of a word I used to know only a few years ago. Hours of mindless gazing at the flickering T.V. screen have undeniably proven to be detrimental to my educational well-being. I'm afraid that one morning I shall awake to discover that I no longer possess mastery of my native tongue and can no longer effectively communicate to convey messages to other native speakers.
What the hell happened? Am I dumbing down? Or has my poetic ability merely hidden itself in the cavernous areas of my mind? Is it just lurking, waiting for a moment where it will pounce upon its next hapless victim?
Meh. Who knows? Rather than sulking, I'll spend the next few days engulfing myself in the world of Jane Eyre. At least that will be more productive to my I.Q. points than worrying about a job.
Barb the French Bean