Hello. I’m a mid-twenties girl who, mainly in an effort to postpone college graduation, managed to pick up an MBA a couple of years ago and find a nice little entry level position at a nice big company. The experience has been so fulfilling that last week I quite seriously looked into the logistics of quitting my “career” to take up brewing at Starbucks. I was enticed by visions of myself in an apron, artfully crafting soy lattes for eclectic patrons, with no concern greater than how best to flirt with the wavy haired intellectual sipping coffee in the the corner and sneaking peaks at me over his Hemingway novel. The allure dimmed quickly when I began to consider my quality of life at $8/hr. As I imagined my life without sushi, grey goose martinis and Greek yogurt, reality began chirping other warnings into my ear: 6:00 AM, caffeine addicts pre-fix, scalding milk, a traffic jam of cups with orders scribbled across the sides. And then of course there were flashes to the conversation in which I inform my career driven boss that I will be leaving her to pursue another opportunity – as a barista. No, definitely not enough conviction in the coffee shop plan to drown out the whispers around the water tank.
But the reality is that I have spent the last two years of valuable life stressed out on the “everyone’s bitch” rung of the corporate ladder and have recently come to realize that I have absolutely no interest in progressing up to “only the important people’s bitch” status. I’m a sales analyst with minimal interest in sales and utterly no interest in analyzing anything, well at least anything involving columns of Excel data points. And so it becomes time for a change. The burnout has so fully set in that the natural career progressing changes sound repulsive and an array of crazy impulses have become irrationally seductive. While life on the open road calls, the saner part of me knows that even if I strap my husky into the passenger seat of my Prius and sell my every possession for gas money, “traveling America” wouldn’t end well. I would be less likely to hang out with Christopher McCandless’ friends from Into the Wild and more likely to be devoured by the grizzly bear. And even more likely my enthusiasm would be deflated by pubic hair infested sheets, overly friendly truckers, and the look of my own windshield at the end of a 12 hour day. My bolt to freedom would inevitably end either at my parents’ house or, if the lease hadn’t run out yet, right back where I started. My dog would eagerly return to her days stretched out in the yard. I, on the other hand, would be income-less and defeated with nothing to show for the adventure save a half body driver’s tan, tales from truck-stop bathrooms, and potentially crabs.
So at the moment I’m on the hunt for a path out of the corporate rut that does not wind me up in either un or questionable employment. Basically I want to find a creative life within a comfortable tax bracket. And someone told me to blog about it, so here I go.