Today I received an unexpected email from a college friend. After
graduation and a few months of unemployment and working some lame writing jobs,
she accepted an offer at a magazine in New York City—obviously every writing
major’s dream and the pay was surprisingly excellent. Her husband was
supportive—grudgingly supportive, though happy about the large paycheck.
She was writing me to tell me how much she was doubting her decision.
She said she’d been looking at my Facebook page, catching up on my life, and
wondering if I was happy. She went on to write that she genuinely thought I
would be the one to whisk away to the big city and do the writing thing. She
had put all her hopes in a job and money, and now felt so alone she didn’t know
what to do. She kept up-to-date through emails and Facebook. She knew who was
married, who was buying a house, getting a promotion, and having kids. And she
was missing all of it. Her college friends’ weddings, her high school best
friend was having a baby in three weeks—and she wouldn’t be able to be the
godmother as planned so many years ago. She was too far away.
Of course, a large part of me wishes I was doing the writing thing
somewhere—New York, Seattle, Rome, Rio de Janeiro. Focusing all my attention on
creativity and art, and crafting my masterpiece among the faces of humming city
life. And my mind began to wander to all of these great adventures I
could—should?—be having, had I chosen a different path after graduation.
And then she wrote: In college, I would have easily said, ‘I’d give
up anything for a dream writing job’—I think we all would have said that. But
look at everything I gave up.
And then I looked at my own life. What would I give up to have the
dream writing job? Not my life with Brett. Not being here for all of my
friends’ life-changing moments. Not the summer softball games of cold bleachers
and summer-smudged feet of the next generation team. I wouldn’t give up my
nights with friends drinking coffee, or watching Extreme Couponing and Say
Yes to the Dress while the husbands play basketball. Not coaching
volleyball or directing the play. Not downtown Owatonna’s memories of cruising
with Karen and Emily while Josh wore a tube top. Not walking to Blast with
Brett—only to realize the trail systems is WAY farther than we thought. Not the
Christmas lighting in Central Park or the Bagel Shop or chocolate treats from
Costa’s. Not being able to drive to my parents to steal their stuff every time
I realize I’m missing something I need. Not being close to my grandparents so I
can experience holidays exactly the same way as when I was a kid.
She’s right. In college I would have easily said I’d give up
anything for a dream writing job. It’s easy to think who we are is defined
by what we do—something I learned to overcome during my seven months of
unemployment. I may not have a glamorous job or make lots of money, but I
rather be known as someone who is always there for my friends. Someone who
never misses a wedding, a baby shower, a ball game. I’d rather be here
in Nowhere, Minnesota with my friends and my family then leave it all for a job
and some money.
So to answer her question. Yes, I’m very happy. And I guess it turns
out I’m not willing to give up anything for a dream writing job.
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