A few years ago, I was considering applying for a waitressing position in town, to work in addition to my summer job. My dad, thankfully, was not in full support.
“Your job right now is growing up,” he said.
This seemed like kind of a cop-out to me. In part because, at sixteen, I was pretty sure I was past the stage where growing up was a legitimate career, and in part because calling aging your profession is a bit like spending all day playing the Sims and calling yourself a game tester.
So I’m at a bit of a crossroads. On the one hand, I’m nearing an age where I need to decide what direction to take my life in, and I would love for that direction to involve writing. Blogging is a way to get started in a changing market.
On the other, I’m eighteen. No matter how many increasingly-legitimate bullets I can add to my resume, I’m still in the business of growing up and being messy. If I go into scholarship, education, or social work, I don’t necessarily want to be associated with my former growing pains. Lord knows how future politicians are going to live down their prepubescent MySpace pages.
Luckily, I have some experience in finding awkward, wobbly footing. It comes with the job.