Mr. Ireland

It's always the older men who will strike up a conversation. The tired grandmothers, the impatient businessmen, the polite but distant college-students—these rarely move past the syncopated how-are-you-fine-how-are-you. Not that I really expect them too. When I'm ringing up their books and magazines and sandalwood-scented candles, I understand that most Barnes and Noble customers simply want to pay their dues and leave. I would.

But sometimes these older men will stop and talk. I don't mind, even if sometimes I feel as though I'm being flirted with by someone 40 years my senior, because it's nice to be acknowledged as something other than a credit card swiper on occasion. The men are typically loud, forward, and old enough not to care what anyone thinks of them anymore. They have an air of mischievousness and often an embarrassed wife at their shoulder. Sometimes she apologizes and leads her husband away by the elbow.

Yesterday one such gray-haired man handed me his purchases and asked me bluntly, “Do you own a house?” Apparently, his wife was a realtor, and he wanted to give me her card. (I don't think I've encountered an occupation more card-pushy than real estate agents, by the way. I received at least two this summer. Considering most people mistaken me for an eighteen-year-old—if not younger—I find this a bit unwarranted.) I explained that I did not, in fact, own a house, and I doubted if I would in the near future. A friendly interrogation ensued in which he asked about my education, my jobs, and what I was doing working at the Barnes and Noble in Grand Rapids. We had plenty of time to chat because he had purchased two pairs of reading glasses and asked me to remove the hard plastic tags with a pair of scissors, and I was failing miserably. (Did I mention this was on Black Friday and we were holding up the line?) I was afraid I was going to break the glasses.

When I told him I had a degree in English Writing, he chuckled and said, “Well, how's that working out for you?”

That irked me. Even though he went on to tell me what a great school my alma mater is (“big girl school”, I think he called it), even though he assured me that success would come eventually, and even though he called his wife over and said, “Give your card to Britta, here; she's going to be a fabulously rich writer someday,” I did not appreciate the sarcastic comment. I'm sure he didn't mean it unkindly, but I guess I'm a little sensitive to criticism in that department these days. As I struggled with the glasses, the plastic tags, and the scissors, he looked up at me and said, “You're really not succeeding, are you?”

I fumbled for an answer. “Well, that depends on what you mean by succeeding,” I said. I thought he was referring to life in general, to the fact that I have a 4-year degree and am stuck working part-time retail. “I mean, I like to think I'm moving forward—”

“I was talking about the glasses, honey.”

I looked down at my hands. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess I'm not.” I handed him the scissors. “Do you want to try?”

He took the glasses and the scissors from me and deftly attacked both tags. “I guess I'm just self-conscious about it,” I tried to explain.

He smiled at me. “The best ones always are.”

I'm not sure what he was trying to tell me with that comment, but I suppose it was meant to be encouraging. After he gave me his wife's card and walked away with his tag-free reading glasses, I was left wondering if I should feel complimented or insulted by the conversation. Was he mocking me or genuinely trying to make me feel better?

I guess the bottom line is that he did drawn some sort of truth out of me. I am self-conscious about how theoretically over-qualified I am for both my jobs. I don't consider myself successful, despite the fact that I am employed, well-educated, and have every provision I need for a happy life. It's rather selfish---and a little bit ridiculous---when I step back and look at it. What more do I want? It's only because all my basic needs are met that I have the time and energy to worry about whether or not I'm moving in the "right direction" or how I can discover my "true calling." I think I need to relax a little. 

I'm not the only recent college grad in a situation of over-qualification. So many of my co-workers at B&N are in the same boat. There just isn't a lot of hiring happening right now, especially for degrees in the liberal arts. And that's ok. I'm not going to be in this situation forever. I will move on from here. So right now, I might as well take a deep breathe and soak in the life experience. Because that's what it's all about, right? At least that is what I'm going to keep telling myself.

For example, I've already learned that I shouldn't make a career out of removing tags from reading glasses. 

The Colors of the Morning Are Inside Your Eyes

Sometimes when I am driving my FedEx truck in the morning, if the clouds are right, and if I am awake enough to see it, and if I'm not stressed about late packages, I'm amazed by the sunrise. I ought to be amazed by it everyday. I'll catch a glimpse of pink light in my side mirror, and when I turn the corner the sky just above the tree-line will be lit with these orange and pink clouds and brightening blue sky, and I'll have to ease off the gas pedal for a moment and just soak it in.

I like to complain to people about how early I have to wake up in the morning (5 am!), but I'm beginning to think that I am lucky to have a job that allows me to witness both stars and sunrise, celestial wonders I don't often pause to observe. Yesterday, as I pulled out of Lydia's Uniforms main office (which, by the way, was initially difficult to find because a trailer was parked in front of the address sign—come on, people!), I thought of the words to the song You're Beautiful by Phil Wickham. I even started singing it. That's the other good thing about driving a truck alone: it doesn't matter how poorly you sing, no one can hear you. No one even has to know. Unless you post it on your blog.  

Chaos Theory

I came home to Grand Rapids after graduating from college primarily because I was broke and had nowhere else to go. Though I love my family and have no complaints about the city, it wasn't exactly my first choice. It wasn't exactly screaming excitement. I saw my time here primarily as a holding yard, a place to get my job act together, make a little money, and then launch out elsewhere. I had no intentions to put down more roots. But as one job application after another fell through and my networking leads ran dry, I began to accept the reality that I might be in Grand Rapids for a little longer than I originally intended. I needed that rent-free bedroom. Still, I did not see it as a permanent move, merely a longer phase of transition.

The longer I live here, however, the more I realize that every decision I make either ties me tighter to my current location or keeps me ungrounded, and I can only hold those two movements in tension for so long. Floating in the middle is not helpful, nor is it fun. The problem is, I don't know what I want, and the timing of life does little to clarify things for me. I spent all summer, for example, filling out applications to jobs at publishing houses in several cities before finally giving up and accepting two less-than-glamorous part-time jobs in Grand Rapids. And of course, mere weeks after I do this, I hear back from, not one, but three publishing houses wondering if I'm still interested in a position. Why didn't those offers arrive a month or two sooner? Why did they have to come only after I've committed to staying at my current job for at least another six months? And should I have held out longer and waited? I have no idea. But my life might look very different right now if I had.

That's the thing about decisions. They have repercussions. They limit your options because when you choose one, you have to exclude others. Shocking news, I know. But it's more than a little paralyzing because I don't feel ready to limit my options; I don't feel ready to be tied down—to a place or a job or a community. What if I realize I want something else? Decisions that people make in this stage of life profoundly influence the trajectory of their future. You get a job in a certain place or a certain field, you marry a certain person, and your whole life spins out from that point. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but it often happens. When my parents were newly married, for example, my dad accepted an internship in Grand Rapids. They thought they would only be here for a few years. Twenty-two years later, here they are. Again, it's not a bad thing; I don't think my parents regret it. But it freaks me out. I don't feel prepared to make decisions with effects of that magnitude. I'm worried I'm going to unconsciously settle, like sand sifting to the bottom of a river, and I'm just going to stay here because the effort of moving will feel like too much work.

The reverse of this, however—choosing not to choose—is no kind of solution. Not being tied to anything or anyone, though it offers a kind of freedom, is isolating and ultimately unsatisfying. It leaves me few opportunities to invest in others or for others to invest in me. Earlier this fall, I was operating under the assumption that I didn't need to make any friends because I already have plenty that I love dearly. Sure, most of them live hundreds of miles away, but if I'm going to be leaving Grand Rapids eventually anyway, why should I bother acquiring more? Should it have come as any surprise that I eventually got lonely?

So how do I live fully in a place I want to someday leave? And if a good opportunity comes along that pushes my Grand Rapids roots deeper, should I reject it just because I'm afraid of getting stuck? These are the kinds of decisions for which college cannot prepare you. Who knows what small choices will end up changing the course of your life? Or perhaps influence it not at all. At the moment, most of my decisions, though I attempt to give them thoughtful consideration, feel largely arbitrary. I have no idea how anything will play out down the road. If I were being optimistic, I would say this was an adventurous notion. Unfortunately, I can't always be optimistic. Sometimes I'm just worried.

Maybe I'm thinking too hard about this. Maybe I should just relax and let life happen however it will. But I can't help feeling that I ought to hold more responsibility than this, that I need to be conscientious about the values and priorities that shape my choices. I don't want to live on autopilot. But just how one does this wisely, and without caving under self-induced pressure, I have yet to figure out. I feel unqualified. I suppose everybody is.