One man's trek to discover what he should do with his life
by Dave Ruigh
When I was 6, I wanted to be a priest. This had less to do with a precocious religiosity than my fascination With Catholic iconography, but at least it was a viable career option. My plan would have been reasonable, even admirable, had I not also wanted to be a professional football player.
— probably a weak-side linebacker. To my sugar-addled 6-year-old mind, dispensing absolution and quarterback sacks in equal measure made perfect sense.
Clearly, I am not a priest or a football player today, and I probably never will be. I don't know what I want to do with my life and never really have. Oh, I've had fleeting plans, but nothing concrete (or logical). In fact, I settle on a new career every two or three weeks. Nothing seems to stick.
1991-1993; 1996-1998: I, like millions of pre-and post-pubescent American males, want to be like Mike. I don't shave my head and can't drive to my left, but I do buy a bunch of
A few more highlights from my lifelong struggle to find a vocation:
I GRADUATE IN MAY AND THE 'REAL WORLD' IS FAST APPROACHING. BUT CONSIDERING THAT MANY OTHER STUDENTS ARE EQUALLY UNSURE OF THEIR FUTURES AND THAT AMERICANS CHANGE JOBS EVERY FOUR-AND-A-HALF YEARS, MY VOCATIONAL SCHIZOPHRENIA DOESN'T SEEM SO UNUSUAL.
Nike T-shirts. Not talented enough for competitive play, I toil in the backwaters of VMCA ball until the dream finally dies.
Fourth grade: Inspired by the mad genius of "Calvin and Hobbes," I try my hand at cartooning but can't come up with a name for the lead character. Dispirited, I abandon the whole enterprise, never to draw again.
(Correction: I did trace a photo of Chuck Berry last semester, but that doesn't really count because, however cool, it could hardly be called original.)
College: arbitrarily settle on journalism as my major and am admitted to the
school early. Later, after reading a book about the Middle Ages, I tack on a history major for good measure. Neither degree will be particularly useful in times of economic recession.
Fall 2003:The Strokes release "Room on Fire." I can't believe guitars can sound like keyboards and decide to form a band. I dress, drink and smoke cigarettes accordingly, but can't sing or play an instrument. My parents wonder why they're paying my tuition bills.
Six months ago:I ask my parents if I can move into their attic to live a life of monkish austerity.I plan to eat only white rice and read "The Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire" until I understand it. Again, my parents regret having a child.
The struggle continues today. I'm torn between two professions that, at first glance, appear to be equally awesome: mailman and park ranger. I have considered doing both (remember the football-playing priest?) but realized most people don't have their mail delivered in the mountains. Besides, the pale blue wool suit would probably attract unwanted attention from bears and other large predatory animals, so it's just as well that I abandon the idea altogether.
In any event, I graduate in May and the "real world" is fast approaching. But considering that many other students are equally unsure of their futures and that Americans change jobs every four-and-a-half years, my vocational schizophrenia doesn't seem so unusual. I may not know what I want to do with my life but, hey, it could be worse. After all, I'm not an English major. Those guys are really screwed.
08.31.2006 14:59 LAY LAY <<!>
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