Real Life Post-Dog

When I was seven, I knew exactly what responsibility meant. I didn’t have the vocabulary then to express it, but if I had, my definition would have been something like this: “The ability to feed, walk, train, play with, and in other ways care for a member of the canine species in such a way that your mother allows you to get said canine and then keep it. Also it helps if you are willing to pick up poop.”

I spent the better portion of my cognizant childhood trying to prove to my parents that I possessed this quality.

It was difficult to do this of course without an actual dog upon which to practice, but my mom said I could also demonstrate my responsibleness by clearing my plate after dinner, completing my Math Boxes tantrum-free, and remembering to brush my hair before school. I tried my best to do these things, but since none of them directly correlated to dogs or dog-chores as far as I could tell, it was easy to forget. I spent more energy pouring over dog books from the library and meticulously copying the picture captions into a notebook than I did cleaning my room or remembering what to pack in my backpack.

Today, fifteen years later, I’m supposed to have a better understanding of what it means to be responsible. After all, my family has a dog now! But recently, I’ve felt like my definition of responsibility (and I’m not just talking about my first-grade definition) has become completely insufficient. My choices can no longer be divided into clear-cut categories of “responsible” and “irresponsible,” and even if they could, I’m not sure it would be a helpful distinction.

As I move forward in my post-college life (or backwards, or sideways---direction seems pretty irrelevant at this point), I feel a dual pull between two often conflicting impulses. One is the desire to advance in a career, to save money, pay off loans, create a stable and predictable schedule for myself. Some might call this the “responsible” impulse. It is the natural inclination for knowledge and security, the need to plan for the future. But the other impulse is equally strong and quite opposite. At the same time that I yearn for stability, I also want to quit all my jobs, move far away, and do something crazy and spontaneous and totally unexpected. I want to jump off cliffs, paddle down rapids, backpack across Iceland, and forget about savings accounts and “career paths”. I want to write a novel on a green hillside in New Zealand, ride my bike to the Pacific, discover the secret stories of the world’s forgotten.

I want both to carve out a Britta-sized space on this Earth and move fast enough that the space never forms.

My struggle with these conflicting impulses is not unique. I think the tension---the dual desire for stability and adventure, peace and conflict---exists naturally within each of us. No person wants to live a life of total monotony, no matter how pleasant their surroundings, but no person wants to live a life of total unpredictability either. We tend to yearn most for whatever it is we currently lack. To live exclusively in one camp or the other is exhausting and empty. We need both.

But how much of each is a question I have been pondering for the past few months. How much do I indulge my desire for variety and adventure and how much should I force the reasonable and practical part of my brain to buckle down and be responsible? If I’m currently employed and well-paid, is it idiotic to give that up just because I’m tired of it and want something new? Is it ok to move across the country or quit my job just for the heck of it?

This tension takes on a very tangible form. I'm currently working three very different jobs, six days a week, nearly ten hours a day. When I leave for my first job at FedEx every morning around 6 am, I feel like I'm packing for a weekend trip, not an average work day. I have my FedEx uniform, my designated FedEx backpack, my purse, my business-casual clothes for my office job, my running clothes and shoes for track practice, and sometimes a normal outfit if I'm heading somewhere directly after practice. I go straight from job to job to job. My free time is limited to the three hours after I get home from practice just before 6 pm until I go to bed around 9. And this time fills up fast.

It is this busy schedule and my desire to modify it into something more sane that has led me to ask these questions about what it means to be responsible, about how it is we determine what the “responsible” action is, and to what extent I should indulge my appetite for novelty. I’m considering quitting one of my jobs and devoting that time to writing, working on my novel, and possibly preparing a portfolio for a Masters in Fine Arts program. The idea is extremely appealing to me, but it means giving up a pretty substantial portion of my income and cutting back on the amount I’m currently devoting to student loans. I’m already a poor and indebted post-grad. Do I want to make myself even poorer?

As I debate this question internally, I tell myself that setting aside time for writing is an investment. If writing is really my goal and aspiration, then of course I should be committed to it. I owe it to myself to give this dream my full attention. But of course, I’m not being entirely honest with myself if I leave it at that. I also want to quit one of my jobs because I hate working on Saturdays and I want to take fun weekend trips this summer. And there is a lot of free time that I currently possess which I am not devoting to writing. What makes me think I will be more productive with more time?

What comes first: Paying off my student loans asap or pursuing my writing dreams? Money or free time? Reducing my stress-level today or for the distant future?

Believe it or not, I have been in some stage of writing this blog post for several weeks. This is not (clearly) because I'm devoting extreme care to the craft or quality of it but simply because I change my mind on what I think about this issue every couple days. I have completely restructured the organization of this post at least four times. Sometimes I think I'm ridiculous for even asking these questions. I should just go out and do whatever it is I want to do! I want to bike across America? Ok, so just go out and do it!

But then I think about all the single parents out there, all the people who are working even more hours a week than I am and yet still manage to retain their sanity. And I wonder: am I just being a wimp? I have no dependents; now is a perfect time in my life to focus on reducing my debt so that in the future I have more freedom to do the things I want to do. It's only for a season after all. I don't have to do what I am doing forever. I should just be patient a little longer. It's not like life only has this small window of opportunity for adventure and excitement and if I miss it now, I'm never going to get it back.

So I come back around to my original question: What is more important to me at this point: stability and security or adventure and the unknown? And if I make a choice, how long will I have to live with it?

I told myself before I graduated from college that I was not going to end up back in my hometown. When May 2012 came and I was left with no other option, I told myself my stay would be temporary, short-term. I would not "settle in" here. 

It's now nearly April, and I'm fast approaching the one-year mark of my college graduation. And I'm still in Grand Rapids, still holding myself in that limbo between permanence and impermanence. It's not a very satisfying place to be. 

I was thinking about this one day as I sat at my florescent-lit desk in my pink cubicle in the maze of an office building where I work. Suddenly, a sentence popped into my head. "Britta, you have no idea what is in store for you." Just like that, those words exactly. It felt separate from myself, like it was someone else's voice and not my own. I wrote it down on a piece of paper and pinned it to the pink wall.

It was the most comforting line I had heard in a long time. 

Because it's so true. I have no idea what is in store for me. I can plan all I want---I could choose to stick with my current jobs, I could start something new, I could move to Chicago---and still I would have virtually zero control over my life. I was reading a manuscript for my job last week about a woman who was in a car accident that paralyzed her from the chest down. No one decides to go on that kind of adventure. It just happens. Life is utterly unpredictable. And yet, somehow, I find this reassuring rather than terrifying. 

Nothing about this past year has been expected. It has unfolded week by week, day by day, with only a rare glimpse beyond the immediate future. It has come with unforeseen disappointments and heartaches, but there have also been equally unpredictable blessings. A year ago I could never have imagined the goodness that could come from coaching track and cross country, forming new friendships, strengthening old ones, and gaining new and strange work experience. My path could take a sharp turn next month---or tomorrow. I have no idea what is in store for me. And there is something exhilarating about that. 

After weeks of thinking about and writing this post, after hundreds of deleted sentences and paragraphs, I still don't know what I'm going to do about my job situation. I don't know how I'd like to spend my next year or where I want to live. Heck, most of the time I don't even know if the choices I'm making are stupid or smart; I'm just sort of making them arbitrarily and hoping things shake out for the best.

If only responsibility were easy and straightforward, like it was when I was little and trying to convince my parents to get me a dog. I have a lot more options now, a lot more ways to live, and there is no way of knowing how any of them will turn out. It's really not a question of responsible vs. irresponsible, monotony vs. adventure. It's not that simple. Life never is. But there is a beauty in the complexity and a wonder in the mysteriousness of the future. It's all so much bigger than I am, and it keeps me humble.

My Friend Emily

Recently, I’ve been feeling like Emily Dickinson. I don't mean that I think I'm some sort of poetic genius or that I lower cookies in a basket to the neighbor kids out my bedroom window. Nor do I float about the house in a white gossamer gown, hiding from visitors. (Although on this particularly day, when the world is obscured by a thick veil of fog, it is easy to feel melodramatic and imagine such things.) I simply mean that in the past few months I have felt a certain kinship with that mysterious woman, and I feel like, if she and I were to meet, we might understand one another.


When I was in college, I wrote an essay about Emily, about why I believed she was such a talented poet. I concluded that her depth of insight came from all the hours she spent alone with no company but her own soul, free (or forced) to plunge bravely into whatever fears or facts she discovered therein. The deeper she probed, the more universal were her observations, as she peeled back the layers of the human experience. She probably devoted proportionally more time to thought and self-reflection than any other woman of her day.


Sometimes, when I am feeling dramatic, I imagine I am Emily, sitting on my bed with my legs curled under me, writing frantically. I stop occasionally to gaze at the fog and the thin, dark lines of trees, arrange my face in a pensive expression. I wonder if I look the part. I haven’t written any poems, though—or anything else that could be considered remotely brilliant. But maybe, if I sit here long enough—a few years—some wisdom might emerge. Or maybe not.

There are many reasons why Emily chose to live apart from society, why she only published a handful of poems during her lifetime, and why she spent the vast majority of her hours locked in her bedroom. I don’t pretend to fully understand the psychology behind her decisions and I won’t get into the many theories of her personality here. But I do think I know a little bit of that love for solitude, and it makes sense to me that poetry could spring from the wells of thought that can be found there, when the mind is given long enough to settle.

Many people fear solitude. They fear what memories or voices may reverberate in the emptiness. Or they simply dislike it, uncomfortable with the lack of stimulation, the quiet, the dark and tangled webs of untouched emotion. But for Emily and I—and for many other people, I imagine—solitude is not a punishment. It is a blissful escape.

I like the quiet expanses of space that surround me when I’m alone in the house. I like walking up the stairs to the office where I work, hearing few noises but the soft murmur of voices or the tap-tap of fingers on keyboards. Silence is comforting to me, blankets me in like fresh snowfall on a rooftop. Sometimes when I’m driving I intentionally turn off the music or whatever audio book I happen to be listening to and let silence fill the cab of my van. I like to give my mind my undivided attention every now and then, to see what bubbles to the surface.

Ironically—because so often we use words to describe our experience in the mind that signify confinement (trapped, stuck, lost, etc)—our own heads can be places of absolute freedom and spaciousness. Emily sometimes described her mind as an expanse wider than the sky, big enough to encompass the whole universe. Physically, she may have limited herself to a small bedroom, but mentally she had boundless room to roam. Because unlike any physical place, the mind is not finite; it is ever capable of expansion, and though it is familiar, it offers an allure of mystery and the undiscovered. It is—or can be—the best of both the real and the imaginary. These past few months I have had more time for solitude than probably ever in my life, and I have found this to be resoundingly true.

But there is a dark side to my pleasure, one that even Emily felt. (As I'm sure all you extroverts are eager to tell me.) The benefits of solitude come at a price, and I'm beginning to wonder if it is not too high, no matter how much I may enjoy it.

I have found that the more time I spend alone, reading or writing or driving, the more of an effort it becomes to re-engage with society, with those complex and unpredictable creatures we call humans. The more I retreat into my own mind, the more comfortable I become there, like a little church mouse setting up house, arranging everything just so. In silence, I am able to let the dust settle, and I am reluctant to leave that still and cocooned place. It represents a place of security for me, like a rabbit den safely underground the chaos of the outside world. Like I said earlier, solitude for me is an escape. And many things in life are not meant to be avoided.

When I am alone, I only have to deal with one person: myself. And while sometimes that is no easy task, it is certainly less complicated than dealing with any number of additional personalities. It's harder for me to hurt people when I'm alone, and it's harder for them to hurt me. For a while I can ignore all the pain occurring around me and pretend everything is just fine.

It doesn't take a college grad to tell you that this world is full of crap. So much pain and suffering, so much struggle. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by it. I'm not sure why I like being alone so much—as least part of it has to do with my personality—but part of it is also a weakness and a desire to avoid discomfort. When I'm under the impression that everything is fine—within my relationships and within the souls of others—I'm under no obligation to do anything about it. I don't think this consciously, but when I stop to examine it, that's probably what's really going on: At least part of my preference for solitude stems from a fear of either the helplessness or the tough responsibility one feels when engaging with those who are hurting.

As anyone who has ever interacted with a human being knows, this is no way to properly live, and I realize that. Sometimes my introverted self gets carried away. It takes a meaningful, personal interaction to snap me out of my stupor. I visited some of my friends from college this past weekend, and I felt something in my soul wake up. Yes, there is a kind of freedom that comes with solitude, but there is also a kind of freedom that can be found only in the company of close friends. You can be totally yourself when you are alone, but it is much more satisfying to be totally yourself among people who can affirm you in that.

The number one thing I miss out on when I choose to spend long hours in my own company is the chance to grow in humility, and by that I mean thinking of myself less and others more. I wrote about this back in October, I think, in a post titled “My Bonsai Tree Life.” Obviously, it's one of those lessons I will continue learning my entire life. It's seems that every time I come back from a visit to Chicago or have a deep conversation with a friend I am inspired to devote more energy to caring for others and actively participating in their lives. And then I always fail in some way to live up to this goal, and I retreat back within myself.

I wonder sometimes how Emily Dickinson survived years and years of self-imposed isolation. How did she retain compassion for others? How was she not driven crazy by her own thoughts? Or perhaps she was. Some of her poetry does suggest a deeply troubled soul. Still, I have a deep respect for Emily, and knowing my own introverted tendencies, I won't judge her for her choices.

But I've decided that for me, art springs from a place somewhere between these two modes of being. I must be both a social creature and a private one. I must experience the world but also have time to reflect on it. One without the other produces dead art, either too lofty and ungrounded or cheap and unfiltered. There is a delicate balance between these, one that I am still trying to figure out. I suppose that's how all of life is, a back and forth shifting of ideas as we teach ourselves how to live in this strange world.

This is starting to get old...

This morning while we were all standing around the station waiting for the delayed planes, one of the full-time FedEx couriers came up to me. "I had about three people this week ask me who that twelve-year-old was who delivered their packages on Monday," he said, laughing.

I had run his route for him on Monday. It took me a second to register what he meant. "Are you serious?" I finally said. "They really thought I was twelve?" I didn't find the situation quite as funny.

One of the other couriers chipped in. "Oh come on, she doesn't look that young. Seventeen maybe, but not twelve."

"It's ok," I sighed. "I get it all the time."

"I bet you do," she said, nodding sympathetically. It did make me feel much better.

I would've been able to brush this off easier if I weren't mistaken for a high school student an hour later. I was sent home from FedEx because the delayed planes weren't due to come in for another four hours or more, and I needed to get to my next job before then. The Grand Rapids airport had been shut down due to heavy snow. My dad picked me up from the station (did I mention that I got stuck in the middle of my street trying to get to work this morning so my dad had to drive me?), and we stopped for coffee and scones. 

The very nice woman working at the counter overheard us talking about the weather and thought she'd make conversation. "You had a snow day today, didn't you?" she said to me with a smile.

I looked up from the pastries. How did I explain to her that I was no longer in school, no longer in college even, and that I had actually been at work for two hours already this morning? I decided not to try. "Uh, yeah." I said. It was sort of true, after all. Next to me, my dad was trying not to laugh.

Just for good measure, I'm going to mention that last week at the incoming freshman orientation night I manned a table for the high school cross country team, and one of the parents asked me if I were a senior on the team. "No," I said. "I'm the coach."

It's a fact. I officially look like a child. Does that mean I still get to act like one?

The Saturday from Hell (please excuse the dramatics)

Considering my last post was about how much I dislike Saturdays, it seems unfair to barrage you with yet another round of complaints against that day. But yesterday was so terrible, it was (almost) funny, and since the first thing I did when I got home was frantically type out a description of all that went wrong, it seems a waste not to let someone read it.

I should’ve known it was going to be a rough day as soon as I woke up that morning. I was emerging from two nights of near sleeplessness, and the ground was covered in about a foot of new snow. At the moment when I glanced out the window and made this discovery, I wasn’t actually worried about it. My mind, apparently, is still in that school mode where snow storms are the most exciting thing in the world because they mean sleeping in and a day off. Though this is no longer true, somehow the snow still excited me. I didn’t think about the fact that I was going to have to drive around in it all day.

When I got to the FedEx station, I learned that we were short a few drivers, so there would be no flex. That meant that if my route got assigned more packages than I could handle, which it often does, I couldn’t pass them off to anyone. This was the first of the bad news. Someone in the higher ups of FedEx gave our station a Service Disruption due to the weather, though, so at least I wouldn’t have to worry about lates---they were automatically excused. I was still feeling optimistic about the day.

Until I got stuck in the snow. At my very first stop. And everything went downhill from there.

The house was on Liberty street just south of downtown where the homes are old and small, and it was at the top of a very steep hill. As soon as I turned down Liberty and started creeping up the hill, I knew there was no way I was going to make it. The road had not been plowed, and my wheels were already spinning on ice. So I figured I would be smart, stop my truck right where it was, and wade through the two feet of snow up to the house. A bit of a walk, but then I could reverse out of Liberty and onto the clearer street below. This would’ve been a good plan if it had worked.

When I got back in my truck after dropping off the envelope, it took me about two second to realize I was in trouble. In the process of stopping the truck, I had slid back into a snowbank, and the back tires were completely lodged. For about ten minutes I tried rocking the truck backwards and forwards, switching between drive and reverse and angling the wheels in all possible directions. I even got out of my truck and tried to dig out the tires on my hands and knees, covering myself with snow in the process and feeling more and more sorry for myself as time passed and my fingers and toes grew numb. Eventually I had to admit defeat. I made an embarrassed phone call to Dispatch.

She said it would be about an hour before the tow truck arrived.

As I slumped into the driver’s seat, I tried not to make eye contact with the curious neighbors who were all out shoveling their driveways and watching as every five minutes or so I stirred to make last-hope efforts to escape.

The one redeeming aspect of my day arrived 30 minutes later in the form of a hispanic man with a minivan. I’m thinking about writing a letter to this man. It would say:

To the kind soul who pulled the FedEx girl out of the snow on Saturday:

I was skeptical at first that your minivan had enough horsepower to pull free my truck, even after you told me about the four-wheel drive and the police officer you rescued. But you proved me wrong. Thank you for driving to your shop to get your chain, and please thank your friends too for so kindly assisting me. I’m sorry I was freaking out so much and kept stomping on the brake.

Sincerely, your friendly neighborhood FedEx girl

The man with the chain and the minivan pulled me off the Liberty and on the adjacent street. And I was free. Free to go forth and have the worst day of my life.

Ok, so it wasn’t the worst day of my life, but it was pretty bad. After that first 45 minute delay, I got stuck again about 10 minutes later, although this time I was able to free myself with some effort. I learned from this that I couldn’t drive down most residential streets that hadn’t been plowed, which consequently meant parking blocks away and hiking through the snow in my FedEx-approved black shoes (note: shoes, not boots) which were soon soaked. I was flustered from all that was going wrong and from how slowly I was progressing from stop to stop, so I started making mistakes---missing streets and turns, etc---which of course only made me more flustered and more prone to mistakes. At noon, I had only delivered six packages. Usually, I’m on my way back to the station by noon, done for the day.

The last straw was an innocent-looking little package addressed to 1139 College SE. I am convinced this house does not exist. And if it does and you live there, I’m sorry that you did not get your package on Saturday, but you really should live somewhere easier to find. I wandered through the snow for several freezing blocks before giving up and returning to my truck (slightly panicked because I had parked it smack in the middle of a street blocking all traffic---it was my only option!), package still under arm. And then I called my dad. When he told me the address I was looking for was exactly where I had just been wandering, I about lost it. Actually, I did lose it. “No it’s not!” I cried. “I was just there. There is no 1139! It doesn’t exist! I hate this job! I hate all this snow!” I started to gasp like a three-year-old, my voice broken by sobs. “I can’t drive anywhere and all the roads are blocked and I’ve already been out here forever and I’ve only delivered six boxes and my toes are cold and I can’t read my maps and this just sucks! And that house doesn’t exist!” Sleep deprivation really wasn’t working in my favor at this point.

My dad did the only thing he really could do in that situation: he pretended like I was behaving totally rationally and informed me that if I had anymore questions, I could feel free to call. I thanked him and hung up. I can’t believe this, I thought. I am a deranged, hysterical FedEx driver. I should be in a movie. It wasn’t exactly a comforting thought.

After that I delivered 17 huge, heavy boxes to this girl’s apartment on the 2nd floor (I think she may have noticed how annoyed I was with her), 42 boxes to an office on the 3rd floor, attempted to enter several locked apartment buildings, tried to turn the wrong way down a one-way street more times than I can count, fishtailed every time I accelerated, dropped off 4 large boxes of human blood, got stuck in the Grand Rapids Auto Show traffic, and then was forced to take a 30 minute break at McDonalds so as not to violate work rules even though all I wanted to do was finish up and go home.

I’m not sure I’ve ever uttered more profanities in such a short period of time as I did that day. Good thing there was no one there to hear me.

When I finally got back to the station, I had been out nearly five hours later than usual.

There is no moral to this story, other than to say that the day eventually ended, even though I thought it never would. And I am in a much better mood now. I just hope it doesn’t snow like that again.

The Entry-Level Catch-22

The following was written by Tim Falkenberg, a friend of mine from Wheaton. He asked me if I would be willing to post this on my blog, since it fits thematically with some of what I've been writing the past few months. Another quintessential post-grad experience:

Currently I work two very different types of jobs: I intern for several companies, which is unpaid, and I do some part-time assistant work for one of those same companies, which is paid. Both of these jobs have their good and bad parts, but there’s a very interesting, and at times depressing, difference between the two in terms of what I do.

My intern work consists mostly of doing script coverage, which means I read film scripts that have been submitted to the company and write something in between a book report and a review of the script. Depending on the company, this is used for a couple of different things, but in the office where I also do assistant work it’s part of what my boss uses to give clients feedback as to what’s working and what isn’t. And that’s pretty gratifying. I’ve heard my boss on the phone before basically reading some of my comments to a client.

There are some truly awful scripts out there, but by and large coverage is pretty enjoyable for someone who likes to read, write, and discuss storytelling (like me). It’s intellectually stimulating work on a subject I enjoy that has tangible effects on projects in development (I’ve gotten to read a couple scripts that were revised after my first pass on them), and it directly relates to my college major to boot. Script coverage is grunt work, sure, but there’s far worse grunt work to be had out there.

As an assistant, on the other hand, my primary duties frequently involving such complex tasks as sorting things and sticking stickers. Now to be totally fair, I’m about the third person down the assistant ladder in a fairly small office, so my job is mostly facilitating the work of other assistants. All the same, probably 70% of the work I’ve been paid for is for using skills I’d mastered by the end of elementary school. I’m not sure 10-year-old me would have been able to do the whole job, but he certainly would have been plenty capable of filing documents and sticking stamps on envelopes. Heck, 10-year-old me wasn’t bad at answering the phone.

So when I write on my resume, “Implemented new filing system,” that sounds pretty good. But it’s also pretty depressing because I know what I really did was make numbered folders and put documents with corresponding numbers in them. I start wondering what use my college education is when companies seem more willing to pay me to print and stick mailing labels than to employ the creative and analytical capacities honed through my higher education.

I remind myself, of course, that any potential for upwards mobility requires a good education. It’s not even that I hate the assistant work, or that I think myself above it. I work in the entertainment industry; if you’re not willing to start at the bottom, there’s a good chance you’ll go broke and bomb out even if you are relatively talented. But when I think about what is required of me to hold a paying job versus what it takes to do a decent job on an unpaid internship, it does feel pretty backwards.

Such is the life of a post-grad.

(You can find Tim's blog here: http://timandhisthoughts.wordpress.com)

The Post-Graduate Weekend

Saturday is my least favorite day of the week. This is mainly due to my intense bitterness that I have to wake up at 6:30 am and drive to work in the dark while the rest of the world remains cozied up in their beds, the day a blank slate of opportunity stretching lazily before them. I imagine them sleeping in late, eating breakfast in their pajamas, and enjoying steaming mugs of tea while I drive an over-sized van frantically around downtown Grand Rapids, dropping off human tissue samples and getting lost in labyrinth-like apartment buildings.

Ok, so I'm not the only person who works on Saturdays, but sometimes it feels that way, and such an early start time certainly cuts short plans for late Friday night shenanigans. Not that I often have such plans, but if I did it would be nice to be able to execute them.

Saturdays at FedEx are rough for another reason, though, besides just missing out on lazy weekend mornings at home. The routine and routes for Saturday deliveries are totally different, so instead of heading out to the suburban Walker where I normally go, I've been assigned the downtown area. I don't claim to understand why the managers gave me—one of the newest employees—this route. Maybe they thought that it would be easier because the stops are closer together. Or maybe they figured I sort of already knew the area because it borders on Walker. Or maybe they just didn't care one way or the other. Whatever the rational, I don't like it.

First of all, there are too many little streets too close together for any of my maps to be entirely reliable or helpful. I can't tell you the number of times I've squinted at my map and matched a street to the wrong tiny-print name. Or how many times I've confidently chosen a route to my next stop only to discover that it involves turning the wrong way down a one-way street. Delivering downtown also means delivering to a number of hospitals and tall apartment buildings. The hospitals aren't so bad, provided someone thought to tell you which of the ten doors to go in so that you don't have to drive around the block five times looking for one that says “receiving”, only to discover that the loading dock is closed on the weekends and the man in the mailroom (when you finally finding it after wandering through the cafeteria) is grumpy because he once signed for a package that got lost and then was blamed for it. The apartment buildings on the other hand: those I hate. Every building seems to have a different rule about what to do with packages. Do I give to security? Do I leave it by the PO box and pray the neighbors don't have sticky fingers? Do I wait for someone to buzz me in so I can wander the halls looking for #401? Because of course, no one is ever home to actually sign for the thing.

And then there is that one stop that always has about 28 boxes which need to be delivered to the third floor of an office building. I'm just glad the building is mostly empty so there is no one there to see me struggling to keep the boxes from falling off my hand-cart as I attempt to hold the door open with one hand and push the cart through with the other.

On top of all this, remember that I am driving a truck. And I am still not comfortable with it, even when the back-up camera is actually working.

Ok, but I'm done complaining now, at least about that. I'm sure I'll get used to my new route eventually. The real reason I started writing this blog entry was to complain about something else, something related to why today was a particularly annoying Saturday. My thesis: Corporations are soul-sucking, impersonal, and I wish I could be self-employed my entire life. Perhaps I'm being a bit dramatic, but I really don't think humans were meant to work for a disembodied corporate power.

Don't get me wrong, FedEx is a very nice place to work, all things considered, and I'm grateful to be employed and earning a paycheck. But it's also a very big company, with rules and procedures created by people in offices hundreds or thousands of miles away. At FedEx, the most important thing about me is my employee number—which I use far more frequently than my name. Several times a month, we have to sign off on papers from “corporate” stating that we have read and agree with various procedures. We are exhorted to avoid late deliveries, not for the obvious reason that we want to please our customers, but boost our station's numbers, to avoid getting on the corporate bad list. Everything seems to be about appeasing this mysterious and omniscient “corporate” power. Screw up just a little bit on the mandated regulations and risk getting fired. Or worse, get your boss or your boss's boss fired, which I've heard legitimately happens.

It was the same at Barnes and Noble, although as the lowest of the staffing low, I was threatened less often with corporate power as with managerial power. “I really can't have you just standing there chatting with each other,” a head cashier snapped at me and a coworker once, after we took advantage of the first break in the line of the day to have a thirty-second conversation. “The manger is up in her office, and if she's sees you on the camera, she's going to send you home.”

I was struck by how often the rationale for doing something a certain way was because “corporate regulated it” or “the boss will see you” or “it's procedure.” Granted, I'm sure at one point all these things had great reasons behind them, but the original reasons are never what is emphasized. When a couple of my friends stopped by to say hi to me on their way through the mall, I wasn't told to keep the greeting short because it looks unprofessional or because it distracts me from my job. I was instead reminded that I was on camera and a manger could be watching me. Nothing like a little threat from Big Brother.

This afternoon after I finished all my deliveries and returned to the station, I was beckoned into the office by my FedEx manager because, apparently, I have fallen below satisfactory level in terms of my punctuality. What this means is that I am sitting on a 95.7% timeliness rating when the appropriate level should be above 96%. Because I haven't worked at FedEx for very long, if I am ever late for work I run the risk of totally screwing my percentage. In the past three+ months, I have only been late twice. Once was because I was asked to come in an hour early and wasn't totally sure what my punch-in time should be, so I was two minutes late. The other time was more legitimate—I didn't hear my alarm and over-slept, but still managed to get to the station in time to punch in only one minute late. One minute. That means that my cumulative tardiness is a total of three minutes. And yet this afternoon I had to sign into my FedEx account and click on this little box that says I understand I have been warned about my failure to be punctual while my manager looked over my shoulder eating his pizza.

“Wow. All this for a couple of minutes,” I said.

“A late is a late,” he replied without sympathy.

Perhaps I'm just sore because I was embarrassed by my little lecture. Even though I think the whole thing is ridiculous, I still want to remain on my boss's good side. But everything about it rubs me the wrong way. Checking off the little box, being told an exact and seemingly arbitrary percentage—it was all so impersonal and demeaning.

I'm sure this is the kind of thing that happens at every big business that has a lot of employees to keep track of. Standard procedures are set in place in order to protect workers and customers and profit, but sometimes—because no person or situation is totally alike—the procedures are inadequate and more harmful than helpful. Maybe it's necessary, but I think it's also dehumanizing.

More and more, I'm starting to idealize how wonderful it would be to work for myself, be my own boss. Set my own schedule. This probably isn't a good sign, given how comparatively little experience I've actually had in the workforce and how many years I probably have ahead of me. I'm probably just too used to being able to call my own shots, as I was for my four years of college. Still, I don't think I'm ever going to get comfortable with the whole concept of a punch-in clock or mass-produced employee handbook.

From The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

"I saw my life branching before me like the green fig tree in the story.

From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and off-beat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."