Throwing Poo

Introduction

For as long as I can remember, I've been looking for a better job.  Countless hours over many years have been spent searching for a good opportunity where the salary is higher, the hours shorter and the boss not quite such a flaming asshole. 

One problem is that I always accepted phrases like "better job" and "good opportunity" as if they were absolute truths - career commandments handed down from Fringes, the Greek God of Ladder Climbing.  Usually all these phrases amounted to were, well, amounts.  More money.  More money to buy more shit to distract me from the soul-crushing work I had to do to make money. 

It reminds me of a saying: "Experience is what you get when you don't get what you want."  Similarly, I think that opportunity is what you pursue when you don't know where you want to go.  There is another saying that goes: "Hermaphrodites with chlamydia are what you get when you order hookers through Craigslist."  I'm not really sure if that one fits the topic at hand, but it is still good advice.

I've spent a lot of years pursuing opportunities, first in business, then in non-profits.  The non-profit work is particularly dangerous because it gives you a free pass on the intrinsic questions.  You convince yourself that you are "making a difference," and therefore it is a worthy pursuit.  Even if you get no pleasure from your work, you can take a certain amount of pride in your selfless martyrdom.  Plus, if you're an asshole, it is a lot easier to live with yourself if you do non-profit work.  Trust me on this one.

My basic problem is that I don't know what I want to do for a living.  I never have.  "What do I want to be when I grow up?" is a question that has tortured me since my first post-college paycheck.  Up to that point, I was entirely preoccupied with making money.  That's not to say I wanted to be rich.  I just wanted to have enough for pizza and car payments - the modest financial goals of a blue-collar kid who saw his father get laid off from the big factory in town (cue the Bruce Springsteen soundtrack).

Some people are lucky because they know what they want to do with their lives.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. is one of those people.  Since she was a kid, she has always known that she wanted to be a lawyer (She's lucky now, that is.  I imagine that milk money is easily parted from the bookish geek who wants to be a lawyer someday.) 

Unfortunately, I've never had that dream job.  There was a time when I wanted to drive Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to work at Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory.  But then I saw my first nudie magazine and the idea of unfettered access to candy lost out to the idea of unfettered access to Candy.  Since then, I've bounced around like a rubber ball that bounces from job to job with no real goal or destination (Note to self: work on your metaphors).

So here I am: a 42 year-old smart-ass who hates his job and uses the word "fuck" like he gets frequent flyer miles for it.  Now what?
 
First, I think I have to come to terms with the fact that I actually am a grown-up.  Hell, I'm nearly a senior citizen.  Still, I cannot seem to let go of the prospect of being discovered as a hot new actor, composing a top ten pop song or winning an Olympic event.  These are the daydreams of a child.  Clearly, I have the full-blown AIDs of Peter Pan Syndromes.  This one may take some work.

Second, I need to find the compromise between 1) what I want to be; and 2) what I want to spend my time doing.  For example, I might want to BE an astronaut.  However, I do not want to spend years studying physics, taking drug tests and not getting laid.  Another example is a musician.  While I would trample my grandmother for the chance to BE a rock star, standing on stage and playing the same twenty songs over and over again for the next twenty years seems like a special circle of hell. 

Maybe the best place to start is to look at what it is I would ultimately like to accomplish with my life.  In other words, on my deathbed, what is it that will I regret not having tried?  One thing is for sure, despite her insistence on Thanksgiving Day, it will not be my mother-in-law's baked turnip mash.  Ugh.

So, for next week's post, I'll begin pondering this idea: Assume I've got one year to live.  What will I spend it doing, and what will I regret not having done?