My Dream Job

The Tuesday morning after my double whammy I woke up and looked at the clock. It was close to 7 am, later than I usually sleep, but still early enough to get up and be ready for work by 8.

“Except,” I thought to myself, “I’m fired and don’t have a job to go to.”

I just stayed in bed. I looked out the window. I looked at the ceiling. I put my head under my pillow and looked at the inside of my eyelids. I didn’t get up because I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t figure out what made sense.

After half an hour of tossing and turning and wondering what to do…I remembered the other important news from Monday.

“Oh right. I have breast cancer.”

Have you ever woken up in a strange bed, wondered where you are, and then remembered that you are on vacation? Have you ever woken up, wondered what day it is, and then remembered it was your birthday? Have you ever woken up, wondered who is in the bed with you, and then remembered that you married the woman of your dreams yesterday?

This was the opposite of all those feelings.

I think it’s funny that I spent 30 minutes fretting about my joblessness before I even remembered about the cancer. Whatever part of my brain handles my denial function seems to be working just fine.

Freshly cognizant of both my new challenges, I became even less able to figure out what to do. I didn’t want to get up and get showered and dress. What for? I didn’t want to do yoga or go running. My healthy, active lifestyle had obviously failed me, so what was the point in continuing? I didn’t want to eat. The only thing that sounded good to me was cheesecake and oatmeal cookies. These things were not in my kitchen, so why go in there?

My car had been taken away, so I couldn’t drive anywhere. My computer had been taken away, so I couldn’t watch a movie or check my e-mail. My future paychecks had been taken away, so I couldn’t spend any money. I’d been so out-of-it yesterday, that I’d plugged my phone charger in upside down, and broken my phone. I couldn’t call anybody. I didn’t want to anyway. I didn’t want to do anything.

Finally, I had a good thought.

“I could write in my journal,” I told myself. “That makes sense.”

That morning and every morning following, writing in my journal always felt like it made sense, even when nothing else did.

I started writing for hours each day. When I thought about getting another job, I just felt irritated. I didn’t want to get a job! I just wanted to read and write all day long.

I thought about going back to school. That’s all school is…reading and writing. I like school. I’m good at it. But, I am still paying off my student loans, and I hate being in debt. It would only be a temporary solution anyway. Sooner or later I’d graduate and have to get a job again. Ugh.

Recently I’ve started thinking there might be a way I can keep reading and writing everyday and not have to get a job at all. Other people get paid for writing, why can’t I?

Saying, “I want to be a writer,” sounds silly to me. Like, “I want to be an actor.” Or, “I want to be a fashion designer.” Or I “want to be a rock-star.” I know people do these things, and are successful at them, and I don’t mean to diss anyone who is pursuing a dream in one of these fields. But, I feel like I need a strategy and a plan, not a dream to follow.

I don't want to work a second job to support my ambitions. I don’t want to struggle and hope my sacrifices will pay off one day in royalties and recognition. I don’t want to pray for the day when I am hailed as the next Barbara Kingsolver or David Sederis.

I just want to have a nice little manageable career. I want to make a modest-to-decent living without doing work I feel conflicted about. I want to be able to afford a small but sunny home in the town I love, buy organic produce and send gifts to my relatives on their birthdays.

My dream job would afford me this kind of life. The actual work would have 3 parts.

1. Live a fabulous, interesting life.

2. Write about it.

3. Sell what I’ve written to magazines.

I don’t know if this is plausible. I don’t know if a person can really have a job like this. It seems too good to be true. But, I think if anyone can do it, I can. I’m really good at living a fabulous, interesting life. I think I’m pretty good at writing. If I’m not good enough now, I’m sure I can take steps to get better at it. Finally, I’m good at selling things. It seems like a perfect fit.

Whatever I end up doing, I know it will be different than what I’ve done in my past. After the last two months, I don’t think I can settle anymore. I just refuse to accept a life where I am doing anything less than exactly what I really want to do.

It’s scary to try and design my own career. It’s scary to wonder if I’m going to run out of money. It’s scary to wonder what other people are going to think of the choices I am making and the hopes I'm harboring.

“But really,” I ask myself, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

The worst thing would be if I got cancer again.

I can’t control that.

So, I’m going to be a freelance magazine journalist, because that is what I really really really really really want to do.