About a month ago, powerball fever swept the nation. All over the country, people said: "statistics be damned," and purchased a ticket to get in on the action. I suspect many of them were purchasing a ticket not to win, but to dream. They knew damn well there was no real possibility that they'd win this life-changing money, but for a week or two, they got to window-shop online for all the big-ticket items they'd buy, got to imagine their dream homes, got to daydream about paying off their debts and giving their nieces and nephews a chance to go to college.
After a long while of being unable to motivate myself to look for a job (and who wouldn't get burned out after 8 years of failure?), I've-- at least for the time being-- pulled myself out of the funk long enough to apply for two jobs. In doing so, I rediscovered something I had completely forgotten about. The powerball effect.
I know that the odds of landing any particular librarian job are near as likely as winning the powerball for me. But still, I can dream. Ever since applying for those jobs, I've taken to imagining what this life-changing windfall would be like. I think about going home after a day's work to a small but nice apartment. I open the fridge-- stocked with nothing but foods I like-- and prepare a nice but relatively fuss-free meal. While waiting for it to cook, I walk to my absinthe fountain-- something I've always wanted but have no room for without a place of my own-- and slowly drip myself a glass of absinthe to unwind from my day. I eat, drink, and enjoy what's left of my day while looking forward to the weekend when I'll have time to see my friends.
I even began window-shopping for apartments. I looked online at pictures of one-bedroom places with reasonable rent, and imagined living in that space, imagined where my things would go, imagined meeting with the apartment manager, seeing the places in person, and trying to figure out if there are children in the apartments, since directly asking is illegal for some asinine reason (I'm not allowed to value quiet and sleep?).
I think about some friends coming up to my new place, bringing board games and being supplied with generous portions of wine, scotch, or absinthe, as desired, along with a home-cooked meal. For once, my friends can come to me, and not always vice-versa.
Some people buy their dreams with a few dollars. I buy mine with the time it takes to fill out an application and craft a cover letter. I think my way is harder, and for a smaller dream, no less. But I'm not here to complain about that. Also, I would typically at this point say something about how my dream will go up in a puff of nothing just as easily as all those powerball players. I would talk about that crushing moment where it's all hopeless again, at least until I can buy the next dream. But I'm not going to do that this time, because I'm trying to give up my default negativity for lent. So instead I'll say, maybe it will be this time. Or the next. And the take away from this for me is that, despite the likelihood of rejection, there is real value in my trying. I spent so much time curled up in a pit of despair that I'd forgotten what it's like to lift my head and at least look up at the sky above. Maybe, knowing this, I'll be able to convince myself to keep trying.
I only need to win big just once.
