I am not a fan of change. I've never been a stay-out-late-party-till-dawn-hop-a-plane-to-Istanbul-grab-a-spontaneous-drink-cut-off-all-your-hair-get-a-tattoo-buy-a-used-van-get-married-in-Vegas-don't-do-your-homework-piss-off-your-parents-have-sex-in-the-pool type. Hell, I don't even have my ears pierced. (I once dated a guy who had an earlobe fetish. He also wore an eye patch. I picked some winners.) I love routine and predictability. I may be the only person in the world who enjoys data entry. Choosing a new career? Moving out of the Big City? Following my Bliss, whatever the hell that is? Not so easy for me. I find myself paging through course catalogs, calculating the cost effectiveness of Intro to Magazine Writing, weighing the glamorousness of school teaching versus copy editing (I love a red pen), wondering if I should have scrapped the BFA for something a touch more computery. I do realize we should all have such problems (get a job already, woman!) but after a weekend of "Confessions of a Teen Idol" (oh sweet VH-1) "Middle-Aged Wannabe" just doesn't seem like a viable profession. I don't want to be Adrian Zmed.
Taking care of the baby, tapping on the computer - I'd pretty happy doing that for awhile. I feel ridiculously rewarded watching the boy learn. (His latest - taking the pieces of apple at lunch and trying to reassemble them so that they fit into the original fruit. Genius!) I'm so proud of how happy he is. I mean, I have to have something to do with that, right? Unfortunately nothing clears a room faster than announcing that you're a Stay-At-Home-Mom. So I look at the coursebooks. I cringe at the costs. I go to the auditions (The Wicked Witch of the West? A giant paper monster? A cyclops? You bet!) and hope for the best. I sign up for the Magazine Writing class and hope for the best. I go to the NYU Open House for Graduate Studies and hope for the best.
Oh how I hope for the best.