(no subject)
It's odd to exit a comfortable life with regular paycheques, occasional moments of fulfillment at my work, and then chuck myself headlong back into studenthood, and a program that I only might like. One part of me knows I've always enjoyed the company of people decades older as much if not more than people my own age. They're time travelers and they're here now! It knows psychology is bitching but I'm not the type who would do well in a research lab, researching whether and how optimism and propensity toward fruit flavored ice creams are linked for 30 years. I would stab myself if my job was to listen to people moan and bitch about their problems in a room filled with Renoir and Cezanne paintings. It knows that while the salary is terrible, it's enough provided Prince Charming makes the same. It sadly realizes that with said salary kids may not fit into the picture, but the occasional adventure to Mexico would still stand. It knows my prospects for jobs will only get better with every year. It knows what I enjoyed best about being a teacher is when I connected with someone and we brought something to each other's lives, even if that was just them talking about how much they liked their cat. It knows I'm a board game fiend and that while I cannot make the simplest of crafts, I would enjoy having ice cream parties out on the lawn.
But then every few days I wonder if I should become an editor, and then the next day I want to be a homemaker (for a bachelor apartment?), and then a travel writer, and then I want to go to Indonesia and be a scuba diving instructor. Or I return to my one memory of an old aged home, as a shrimpy girl in an ill fitting Brownie uniform singing in front of a very scary crowd of white haired sleepyheads, all of whom commented in crackly, cellophane voices on the smoothness of my hands as I served them tea and tried not to knock scalding water into their laps. And I wonder what the hell I was thinking in choosing a profession that essentially requires me to be an organizer and social butterfly.
And Toronto is scary and strange. And deep, deep down I know that I'm not qualified for life the way other people are. And what if those 2 first years in Japan is the highlight of my life, Corey Feldman's teenage years?
But then every few days I wonder if I should become an editor, and then the next day I want to be a homemaker (for a bachelor apartment?), and then a travel writer, and then I want to go to Indonesia and be a scuba diving instructor. Or I return to my one memory of an old aged home, as a shrimpy girl in an ill fitting Brownie uniform singing in front of a very scary crowd of white haired sleepyheads, all of whom commented in crackly, cellophane voices on the smoothness of my hands as I served them tea and tried not to knock scalding water into their laps. And I wonder what the hell I was thinking in choosing a profession that essentially requires me to be an organizer and social butterfly.
And Toronto is scary and strange. And deep, deep down I know that I'm not qualified for life the way other people are. And what if those 2 first years in Japan is the highlight of my life, Corey Feldman's teenage years?