(Sorry for the confusion last week, subscribers. I was working on this post, then backed out of it for a moment, then went back into the wrong post. Because apparently I started a post with the exact same title and first sentence twice. This one’s the real deal.)
I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
There was a time when I was passionate about language. Helping writers communicate clearly. Helping readers by giving them clear, concise text to read. And I still care about those things; it just feels at times like nobody else does. When they do, they insist that I do my thing under their roof. Which is always in New York or California or Chicago or New Jersey. Somewhere I am not.
I love graphic design. I hate designing for the approval of others. I’m not sure I would enjoy designing for a living enough to spend the money on the degree I’d need to get a good design job.
I’m drawn to the idea of pursuing a master’s in library science, but is it worth it to get yet another degree if I’m just going to end up in a job that pays roughly what my current field does?
Do I really, at 42, want to start at the bottom in a new field?
Half of my agony in these mental sparring matches is the money involved. What I will spend. What I will make. I spent the past 20 years beating the “money doesn’t buy happiness” drum because I wanted, more than anything, to have a child. And now that I have a child (two, actually), I desperately want a house. And a new car. Money might not buy happiness, but it’ll buy a house. And a new car.
What would make me happy as a profession likely would not buy me a house or a new car. So now I have to decide what would really make me happy. If there is such a thing.
I’m starting to think I will never be satisfied; there will always be something more I want. Not stuff, necessarily. But there’s always something just out of my reach. Some area I feel I could improve upon. Which is both cool and immensely frustrating.
Every day, Anya wants to know what fun things I have planned. Which is a lot of pressure. But it also gets me to thinking about what we could do that’s fun. Her definition of fun extends from Chuck E. Cheese (to her, the pinnacle of fun) to making ornaments out of construction paper and twine. So I have my work cut out for me.
Recipes. I am plotting dinner. Snacks. Cookies. Perhaps – perhaps – even some candy. And I am contemplating kettle corn.
I have forgiven TWD for the dark places they’ve taken us. I’m beginning to get an inkling that we went to such dark places so that they could lead us to better ones later on. Perhaps I’m being too generous. But they made me laugh last week, and that’s saying something.
Jingle Bells. A lotta lotta Jingle Bells. (Anya’s just learned the words, you see.)
I’m editing web pages for One Community in between freelance assignments. And also working on my holiday cards.
Making me happy:
Kai loves the Christmas tree. Every time I turn it on, he says “Oooh!” I feel the same way, kid. That’s why I put it up in November.