Further failure, part 2: the dark side.

I've been putting this post off for a while.  I posted earlier about a job I came so close to getting after all these years, but came up short once again at the very end.  That post was my optimistic look at the situation, and I planned to follow through with a pessimistic look at it.

But the truth is, I'm just not feeling it.  And not only did that make it hard to motivate myself to want to do this, but it made me afraid to do it.  I've actually been feeling pretty good lately.  I've had things in my life to look forward to, even if gainful employment (and everything that comes with it) hasn't been one of those things.  So I was afraid that if I looked inside myself for the gloomy outlook that I know still exists in here somewhere, I might just open that Pandora's box a bit too wide and gloom and depression would have dominion over me again.

However, I have more I've been wanting to say, and that means I need to get this post out of the way first.  So on the bright side, it was a good sign that I got so close to a job, that had circumstances been different, I might be gainfully employed and living in my own apartment right now.  On the bright side, I now know that it's at least possible.

But on the dark side....

On the dark side, that was a damn fucking good job I didn't get.  The kind of job that doesn't come around very often.  Gainful employment doing exactly what I want to do and exactly what I know I'm good at, while only having to work 80% of full time.  Having an extra 20% to myself, to spend how I want.  And working in a nice place with a nice bunch of people.  That job was at the tip of my fingers, but it came down to five people who decided to pull it out of my hands after all.  And just like that, my best shot at a great job is gone.

Now, I might get a job someday, sure.  But the chances of me getting a job like that?  Well, it just can't happen.  I'm no stranger in life to unicorn hunting, but I've never managed to catch that damn unicorn.  May have spotted a few, but they all got away.  I should definitely not be getting my hopes up about being able to catch this particular unicorn.  So no, I'm going to have to grind my life down working 40-45 hours a week or more, 49 weeks a year or more if I ever get a job at all.  And granted, that is what most people do, but if there were a way I could have avoided that and had enough time to do some real traveling and whatnot, well it would have been through a job like that.  A job I probably can't ever hope to have.

And then there's the other issue I've hinted at before and will hint at again: I want very little out of life.  but the one thing I wanted more than anything, it's already probably too late for me to get that.  And the reason it's too late is because I won't be getting a living wage until I'm God knows how old (33 and counting).  I really needed to get there by my mid 20s at latest, but since I already didn't do that, I have next to no chance even if I get a job tomorrow.  Even if I had gotten that job I'd have next to no chance.  This is all for nothing.

That's about all I can write right now.  I'm already feeling down from this, so I'll stop here and try to get myself back into good spirits.  Things are going ok for me right now.  I have things to look forward to.  And my next post will actually be good news.  Back to the bright side.

We just got no letters, I wonder who they're from.

It has been an especially long time since I’ve gotten a letter of rejection.  Part of the problem is, of course, that I’m applying to fewer jobs these days.  The truth is, there have been far fewer jobs to apply to lately.  I don’t know exactly the cause, but it seems that there are far fewer jobs being advertised this year than there have been in the last two years, and most of my time job hunting lately is spent skimming a short list of job ads while thinking: "nope, nope, nope, I don't even know what that is, nope, and that's it, let's see how it goes next week."  But part of the problem is also that sometimes you just don’t get a rejection letter.  Sometimes you get a rejection email, and sometimes you get nothing at all.

Reading comments from other job seekers, I’m under the impression that a lot of us would very much appreciate being told when we weren’t selected for the job.  Maybe I’m still younger than some of them, but I honestly can’t remember a time when it was commonplace to receive any kind of notification.  I once applied to a job outside of the field, and the interviewer assured me unsolicited that they do call people to let them know if they were selected or not.  They never called me.  I learned after that that I should neither expect notification nor bother trying to obtain assurances that I’ll get any.

But really, of all of the complaints that us job seekers should have—the very shallow job pool (more of a job puddle, really), the mystery salaries, the low salaries—it seems odd to pick on notifications.  Maybe this is the best we feel we can do?  That was can never expect anything else to improve, but maybe if we raise our voices enough, more places will send out a nice little form letter or email?  Maybe even with a real signature on the bottom if we’re extra blessed?  I’m sorry, but with so many legitimate issues that exist when job hunting, it seems like nit-picking to bring this one up.  You know why I don’t care if I get notified?  Because if they never give me any kind of reply, that’s my answer.  I figured it out all by myself.  Actually, it somewhat annoys me to receive a notification of fuck off because it often happens 3-4 months after I apply for a job.  Why even bother?  Thanks guys, but I worked out that you didn't think I'd work out.  You've given me no new information.

But I have noticed the lack of paper letters in just the past year.  As I write this on Feb 2015, the last paper notification of what a loser I am came in on June 2014 (thanks, Santa Fe! I'm sorry I won't try your chili but I'm glad I won't encounter your scorpions).  And I know that paper notification letter had been a thing even as recently as a couple of years ago, and I know that because I have a stack of them.

I’ve saved every single one of them since I began job hunting in 2008.

I’m not sure what my intentions were, exactly.  Maybe I thought that when I got a job, I could look over every rejection letter and think: “you didn’t pick me, but I found someone who would.”  Maybe I thought that one day when my niece or nephew is looking for a job and having a hard time, I’d be able to pull my rejection letters out of my filing cabinet and show them that people often don’t succeed their first try, but if they hang in there, good things will happen.  Maybe I wanted to burn them all at once in some gleeful celebration.  Maybe I wanted something to glare at when I drink (though my MLIS is filling that role nicely).  I don’t know what I was thinking, but the point is I kept them, so I still have them, so I know they used to be a thing people sometimes received by mail.

And now it seems even more uncommon to receive them by mail than it was before.  This is, of course, only my experience and personal experience counts for nothing.  But since my experience is the one I’m writing about, here it is.  My thoughts on saving rejection letters suffer the same problem as my thought to pursue a career in libraries: it was a nice thought, but ultimately unworkable.

So this is the new year. And I don't feel any different

2014 is sputtering out its last gasps.  By the time anyone sees this, it will likely be 2015.  Another year ticks by with nothing to show for it but lack of opportunity and failure for the very few opportunities I did have.

The end of the year is doubly a symbol of failure for me, because it's not only the end of a calendar year, but the end of another year of my life.  I was born on December 28th, 32 years ago now.  As another year passes by for the earth, so too does a year of my life go by in almost perfect unison.  So now, as I type this out two days after my birthday and two days until the new year, I can say that both of these cycles have been completed once again without me seeming to be even one step closer to being anything, anywhere, to anybody.

I've mentioned before that I'm a failure, and as much as I try to move forward, the light never changes green for me.  Year after year, I'm seeing red.  Farewell 2014, another pointless waste of a year being shaved from my life with nothing to show for it.

As a point of habit, I've never celebrated New Year's eve.  For one thing, I don't have the kind of social circle that gets me invited to parties.  Big shock, right?  And for another, I've always resented holidays that are used as an excuse to drink.  I'm a fucking adult, even if I don't live like one, and I don't need someone to tell me when is a socially acceptable day to drink if I want to.  So while everyone is out drinking and making out with their significant others (or closest strangers) while listening to a song by a poet they all REALLY ought to learn more about (fact: Robert Burns is better than you), I will be here in my basement, playing video games, and probably not noticing when the clock spins to midnight.

It's lucky that I've never felt an urge to celebrate the new year.  Because if I ever had, I sure as hell wouldn't want to now.

I started this blog as a 29 year old living in the basement of his parents, and now I'm a 32 year old living in the basement of his parents.  Not a 32 year old who dropped out of high school and has spent the last 17 years doing drugs, but a 32 year old who spent until 26 getting an education, getting a Master's degree, and then finding out what was supposed to be a practical, employable Master's degree wouldn't even make good kindling.  And this basement is fucking cold.

32 is the year that you're officially old enough that it's hard to remember your age.  30 is easy because it's the big 3-0.  31 is easy because "holy fuck, I've gone a year past the big 3-0 and I still don't have my life together!  32 is when you stop counting because it's all just too God damned depressing.

A benign year for me.  A malignant year for the earth.  Progress happening for neither of us as we race to see who passes away first while looking back on what we've done to confirm that it was all a huge mistake.

Silence

I've gone a little while without updating my blog.  Don't worry, I still have plenty of scribbled notes of ideas for blog discussions.  I just haven't been interested in doing them lately for the same reason I haven't been very diligent in job hunting for librarian jobs lately.

When I first started writing about the impossibility of getting a job in this field, the advice I gave to myself, yet refused to accept, was "Give Up."  And while I haven't done this yet, the sentiment has crept deeper into my bones lately.  It's so hard to motivate myself to spend hours of my time going through job listings and applying to at least the lowest hanging fruit when more than six years of experience is telling m it's a waste of time, and my life will never move on from the stalled place it's at now.

For the past few months I've been begrudgingly doing the part-part-part time job I do have and then coming home and escaping into books or video games, not even bothering to waste my time applying anywhere.  I've just been feeling too defeated to pull myself up lately.

If you're not in this position it's probably so easy to say: "oh, but you need to apply, you never know!"  or "don't Give Up!"  Or "you may as well keep trying, no harm in trying after all!"  To you, I challenge you to go six straight years failing at something and not go through patches where you're just not motivated.  When you've had Mike Tyson beating you senseless for six years, there will be times when you lie on the mat for longer than needed, just to get a break.

My lack of interest in my career has also, as you have seen, translated to a lack of interest in talking about my career.  I still have plenty to say, though.  And really, that's sad.  I didn't know when I started two years ago that I'd have over two years worth of material to rant about regarding my own personal failure in life, and the death of the American dream.  No, not death.  Zombification.  It has died, but shuffles on as a cruel mockery of those who cared for it, devouring them in giant handfuls.  I don't know what to make of the fact that I've now used two analogies of fighting an opponent who likes to bite people.  Point is, it is appalling  that there's so much to say about how terrible one specific problem is.  Two years and still so much left to say about the futility of life for anyone trying to start a life for the first time post November, 2008.

And it will be said.  A few days ago I managed to bring myself to skim the job postings half-heartedly, and this should mark the start of more searching, more applications, and more posts about just how fucked this dead field is.

Enjoy.

On the bright side: death

I’ve found that I’m far too candid when people ask me how I am.  No one really wants to know.  I know this by the way they keep walking without giving me a chance to answer.  I know it by the way I’ll say something completely nonsensical and they’ll respond with “good!”  I’m well aware of the social convention where I’m supposed to say “good” or “fine” (no matter how I actually feel).  And I don’t do that.

No, instead the most awful crap will fall out of my head.  I will tell complete strangers, or people whose faces I know from seeing them around maybe twice a month or so, things like “I constantly fantasize about dying of cancer, and I sincerely want that to happen.”  Today it was: “I think I’ll give it til the end of the year, and if I still don’t have a full time job I’ll just do heroin until I die of AIDS.”

That… that is pretty fucking dark.  And rest assured, I do not think I’m being “funny” when I say these things to people.  I may not literally want to die of AIDS (though the cancer thing?  Completely true, actually…), but the sentiment does reflect my mood and how I feel about life.

For the most part, I consider saying these things to be a kind of revenge.  They asked a question they didn’t want an answer to, so I get back at them by giving them an actual answer.  Just my little way of saying: “there, we both feel awkward now.  Happy?  Let that be a lesson about asking about stuff you don’t want to know about.”

But still, holy crap, it is getting really fucking dark.  Like, really dark, to the point where this isn't ok anymore.  My honest answers are taking a turn for the worse.   The misery of my unemployability has gotten to the point where dying of cancer is my favorite fantasy.  I just imagine how nice it would be for all the weight to be off.  No more stressing about how my clock is tickin’ and I still haven’t found a job.  No more wondering or worrying about what will become of me.  Finally, an answer.  A final answer.  I would just know that nope, I’m not going to get what I wanted out of life, but I could be at peace with that because I’d know that I won’t have to worry about it any longer.  I'll be dead soon, so nothing I wanted is actually going to matter anymore.  I’d fulfill my obligations to work, if possible, then leave that miserable place, and spend my last days enjoying the little things in life while my loved ones—the few there are—all tell me how awesome I was and say their goodbyes.

That’s true, every word of it.  I mean, I’m sure the physical agony of cancer would be hard to take, but aside from that, just emotionally, knowing it’s over and being at peace would be so wonderful.  I can’t stop thinking about that.

To be clear, I’m not saying I’d kill myself.  I wouldn’t.  I’m just saying that a large part of me hopes to have it taken care of for me.

That’s another fun thing to consider if you want to be a librarian: how emotionally strong are you?  What effect will years and years and years of failure have on you?  Think you can take it?  This is probably a career to stay away from if you, unlike me, might actually have it in you to find that easy way out.  

Because sometimes, I can't help but pray for it.  Sadly I know it will not happen, for I am simply far too pretty to die. 

Wash it down the drain

As I think of how unprepared I feel to do most of the jobs I find on the job hunt, and how scary everything seems, and how hard and how much work, I often think I’m trying and failing to do something I have no business doing.  I know that my life has been a never ending cycle of me thinking I don’t have the competence to do something, and then doing it well.  And I know I earned my degree, and I did well in my fieldwork, and I’m doing at least well enough not to get fired with my current position, but none of that makes me feel prepared or capable of doing 99% of the library jobs I see.

As I sat (alone.  In the dark.  If you must know) tonight, dwelling on that very issue, I couldn’t help thinking about how I’ve set myself up for failure by trying to do something I’m just not good enough to do, and then I thought: “All because it was so fucking important for people to think I’m smart.”

I mentioned before why I chose to be a librarian, and all of that was true, but it’s also true that my motivation for a lot of things in life stems from wanting to show that I’m smart (and in my previous explanation, that was indeed my reason for getting into reading before I found that book that really made me into reading).

I know “Librarian” doesn’t say “genius” the way a medical degree or something would, but I’m not smart enough for a medical degree.  But I am (or thought I would be) smart enough to be a librarian.  And hey, librarians are considered smart.

The only problem is, now that I’m trying to get that job I really don’t think I’m smart enough at all.  I mean, I’m smart at a few things.  Reading, of course.  Logic, of the “if X, then Y” variety.  And I was a good student because of that, being able to see patterns easily.  I still remember one example.  Elementary school, some guest speaker was talking to us all, grades 1-6.  I was probably somewhere in grades 1-3, can’t say where for sure.  He had a long rectangular box with doors on both sides, and he put a ball in one side and asked where it was.  Someone pointed to the side he put the ball in.  He tilted the box so the ball rolled to the other side, then opened the door the kid pointed at to reveal it wasn’t there, and asked again where the ball was.  Another kid points to the side the ball rolled to, and he tilted the box the other way… etc.  This went on for several rounds, and I was /dying/ for him to call on me.  I couldn’t believe that no one else had figured it out.  Simple, point to where the ball isn’t and he’ll tilt it and that’s where the ball will be.  Simple pattern recognition, right?  He was calling on all the older kids, and none of them got it.  I’m sure I was one of the few who did.  He even made a comment at some point, along the lines of “you’d think they’d figure it out by now” before giving up completely.

And in the post I linked to above, you see that my kindergarten teacher didn't think it was even possible for someone to read fluently at the age of 5 until I was her student.

So where does all this insecurity come from?  This driving need for people to see me as intelligent?  Easy.  I had another trait as a small child: I liked making people laugh.  So I tried to do that at every chance I got, getting myself a bit of a "class clown" reputation.  I didn't know it at first, but apparently the stereotype is that class clowns are dumb.  That's just the stereotype: the kid seeks attention because he's not good at anything else.  I eventually realized that the other students weren't aware of the smarts I had, they were only aware of the clown persona, and applied all the usual stereotypes to it.  Everyone was treating me like an idiot, and it was the worst feeling in the world.  I never got over that.  to this day nothing gets under my skin quite like someone insulting my intelligence.

Therefore, it was important to me all my life that people see me as smart.  Therefore, reading and higher education.  Therefore, librarian.  When I dig further back into my past than the post linked above, I see it was my insecurity that took me here and drove me right off the cliff of failure.

The thing is, even though I was actually a pretty sharp little kid, none of that potential I had amounted to anything.  I think I was an exceptional child who, through sheer lack of motivation, became an average adult.

I spoke before about a song lyric that applies to my life, or more specifically, the part of my life I describe in this blog.  There’s another song lyric, much less optimistic, that also applies.  From a song called Farewell Mona Lisa:

“Don’t you ever try to be more than you were destined for, or anything worth fighting for.”

That one hits me every time.  I feel like that’s exactly what I did.  I bit off more than I could chew, tried to become something more than I was worth.  And now this is my life: struggling and fighting to do something that I don’t honestly believe I can do, and the thought of doing it scares me senseless.  Fail or succeed, I feel like neither option can end well for me.

All those employers I’ve sent resumes to have been right not to put their trust in me.

Subterranean homelife blues part 2

I mentioned previously that I live in my parents’ basement.  That’s the life of an aspiring librarian: 30 and in a basement.

I’d like to talk a little more about what it will actually be like for you when you’re living in a basement, waiting to find a job that will employ you at least half-time after you get your MLIS.  If you predict that it will suck, you are so incredibly correct.

I recently came to realize that I’ve been living in basements for 12 years now.  As an undergrad at the age of 18 I moved into my grandparents’ basement to be close to my school (I didn’t have a car then), and watch their place when they were away traveling for months at a time.  After my undergrad days I moved back with my parents while getting my MLIS, and have been here since.  My old room was now my sister’s room, and my sister’s old room had been converted into a computer/study room, so I got the basement. 

12 years spent living in ugly, smelly basements.  Basements are going to be ugly and smelly no matter how you dress them up, that’s just the way it is.  You can dress up a pig, but… it’s still a pig, isn’t it?  You know what else a basement is like?  Cold.  Freaking cold.  As I type this it is late Spring, and Spring is actually the coldest time of the year for me.  Winter isn’t that bad because the heat is on, but come Spring the heat gets turned off and I’m sitting here wrapped in blankets, wearing sweatshirts, shivering.  No one as hot as I am should ever have to be this cold.  There are people who have literally frozen to death who have never, in their lives, been as cold as I often am in the Spring.  The only time it’s really nice is Summer, when I’m actually cool while everyone else is suffering from heat stroke.

I could deal with all of that… I mean, it’s not awesome, and I’d still walk around with a general sense of sadness on the inside that has leeched into me from my dank surroundings, but you know, I could deal.  Except for the other thing that is a common fixture of basements that you just can’t fight no matter how much carpet you put down…

Bugs.  Fucking bugs.  Running spiders as big as your hand.  Centipedes.  For those of you not “blessed” to live in a region with house centipedes, just imagine someone took ten long-legged spiders and glued them together.  That’s pretty much a house centipede.  I’d link you to a picture, but then I’d have to see it myself.  Even pictures of them make me uncomfortable.

I have always had a psychotic, paranoid fear of bugs.  I cannot live with having to share a planet with them.  The very thought of it makes me want to cry.  There’s only one thing that gives me just enough peace of mind to sleep knowing those things are skulking around: I sleep with a bug net around my bed.  Well, sort of.  It’s really less of a bug net and more of a pretty princess/harem girl kind of thing, but whatever, it does the job.  I’ve only seen a spider inside the net with me maybe two or three times in these past 8 years.  More often than that I see them outside the net.

I always have spray within reach at all times.  For the past 12 years I’ve been spraying powerful bug poisons near my bed, and I’m not sure exactly how well ventilated these basements are.  And I don’t care.  Lex Luther wore a kryptonite ring until he himself got cancer from it, because he hated Superman that much.  I don’t know how many years I’ve taken off of my life, but it’s something I need to do.  I said I can’t live on the same planet with bugs, and I meant it.  I will slowly kill myself to take as many of them with me as I possibly can.  And yes I realize I’m the supervillain in that analogy, and I’m ok with that.  What, am I going to pretend that someone who has declared all-out war on all bugs—and actually believes that the bugs are aware of this and are fighting back in coordinated efforts—is all that sane?  So sure, I’m the bad guy, I don’t care.  Say hello to the bad guy, you cockroaches.

But God damn, am I ever sick of living in basements.  More than a decade of this… success is really this impossible?  This is the new American way? 

Those of you who are just getting your MLIS, I hope you’re less afraid of bugs than I am.    

No end in sight to my suffering

It may seem like I've forgotten about this blog, but I do have more to say.  This issue right now is a combination of being very busy and being completely demoralized from losing all of the pre-written posts I had when my hard disk died.

So just to keep things going for now I'll address a question that no one asked: does anyone know about this blog?

Well, no.  I mean, like, no one at all.  I'm positive no one follows this.  Even people I know.  I've told some people I have a blog on this topic, but I haven't told them how to find it.  For the most part, however, I haven't alluded at all to the fact that I have this blog.  And that, of course, is a big part of the reason no one follows it.  I don't advertise.  I can't.

The thing is, I figure as long as no one who might ever read this knows who I am, then I'm free to say whatever I want.  If I were writing this keeping in mind that my friends, relatives, boss, co-workers, what have you, know about this blog, then I'd be keeping in mind as I write it who may be watching, and making adjustments based on that.  If no one knows, I'm free to say anything I want without ever even thinking about whether or not I should phrase things differently, omit things, etc.

so when will I ever tell people about this blog?  when it becomes a finished product.  that day will happen.  I don't know when, but it will.  It will be when I'm no longer a failed librarian.  And that'll happen either when 1-- I've found that full time job, or 2-- I've given up so utterly and completely that I'm no longer looking for library jobs or planning to ever look again.  If the former happens, I will no longer be a failure.  If the latter happens, I will no longer be a librarian.

When this is a finished product I will share it with the people who I consider it not inappropriate to share it with.

So if anyone was wondering if this very blog was one of the obstacles I've been having to getting that elusive job, hell no.  I'd rather every view be from a spam-bot than give myself away right now.  for now I write uncensored, freely, and (preferably) drunk on absinthe.

My "favorite" interview question, and answers.

Why do you want to work here?

-Because I need money.

-Because I’d like to stop being a failure now.

-Because I have to start somewhere.

-Because I sent out a million resumes and this was the only place to call me.

-Because I spent all day yesterday lying in bed.  Come dark, the shadows danced on the ceiling until they blurred together into non-Euclidean shapes with glowing red eyes and gaping mouths.  Their dispassionate, echoing laughter filled my ears as they swirled around, laughing, mocking me.  They made me feel bad about myself.  I lay there mesmerized, forgetting about my body.  There was nothing but them, me, and the laughter, God the laughter.  They saw inside of me, right through my skin and sinew, into my soul.  They found it empty.  Empty, lost, and forever alone, leaning out for anything but never touching something real.  They laughed.  It all went away that night.  The whole world went away.  I don't know if it was just me, or if I actually unmade the entire world with my mind.  I don’t know when I lost consciousness, but eventually my eyes blinked open as the light of a new day hit my face.  I still felt paralyzed.  For another hour, some part of me wanted to go back.  Wanted the world to go away again, just wanted everything to go away forever.  I’m afraid of what will happen if I spend another day like this, if one more day of me being a failure with nothing else to do were to go by.  I might lose myself again.  I might unmake the entire world forever.

-Because please?

I'll think of an awesome title for this someday.

A little something I just composed.  I'll probably kick myself later for posting it because I like to tinker with things for a long time and I'm sure I'll decide later that it looks better another way, maybe add a verse or two, and I'll definitely think of a way better title (currently I have none), but screw it, here it goes:

What can you do when

An economy collapses?

You send out your resume

But you won’t get any chances

You did well in school,

Hoped you’d be a success.

But soon you’ll be forced to

Eat your MLIS

The years still go by

And you’ve had no luck yet.

Your life has been ruined from

Your massive student debt

You flip burgers for nothing

But yet you’re still trying.

You’ve lost all your hope,

But you keep on applying

Maybe someday when

You’re a septuagenarian

You’ll be able to say that:

“I am a librarian.”

What's so happy about it?

As of a little over a week ago, it is now finally official.  I am the quintessential go-to example of a loser stereotype.  I am a 30 year old living in my parents' basement.

I explained the whole parents' basement thing in this old post:

http://failedlibrarian.blogspot.com/2012/10/subterranean-homelife-blues.html

And now I've finally hit the "big" 30.  I don't see what's so big about it, though.  The only difference seems to be lower car insurance rates, and the sudden inability to eat pizza before bed from now on.

But that's neither here nor there.  The point is that I am 30, have had my MLIS for almost 5 years, and have yet to find any employment in my field that even qualifies as half-time.  Anyone surprised?  Show of hands?


.

.

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Yep, that's what I thought.

FML

So, my hard disk died.  I had almost nothing backed up.  The disk is so thoroughly fucked that it would cost 1200-1500 to even attempt to repair it.

What does that have to do with this blog?  Well, aside from having had several blog posts written out in a word doc in advance, I also had my cover letter templates on that disk.  Yet another beautiful setback in my job hunting, like I needed one.

I also lost some statistics I was keeping, such as a list of every job I applied to.

This is all really the least of what I lost, but it's the only part relevant to my blog, so I'll leave it at that.

Positively positive

You're getting by now that I'm aware that I completely ruined my entire life with my horrible career choice of trying to be a librarian.  Yep, I am, no arguing there.  But in honor of Thanksgiving, I'm going to try to think of something positive to say about it.

The good thing about being a librarian is that the work itself doesn't suck.  Ideally.  I mean, no matter where you are, some jobs are just going to suck.  But if you can find a position that doesn't, it sure is nice to be able to help people and feel like you're doing something of value.

Before I embarked on this career, I couldn't fathom the idea of wanting to work.  It's something we do because we have to, not because we want to, right?

One of the things I learned in the management course in library school was that people are most satisfied with their professional lives when they believe that what they're doing really matters.  I had no frame of reference for that tidbit of knowledge to be useful to me at that time, but for some reason I remembered it when I was doing my fieldwork and a cartoon light bulb went off over my head.

The last job I'd had before my fieldwork was, embarrassingly, being one of those people at a busy intersection holding up a sign for a nearby pizza stand.  My entire job was holding up a sign.  I could have been replaced at any moment by a wooden post.  How valuable do you think I felt?

Then I got to do fieldwork and I got to help people.  Directly.  Even when it was something as simple as showing them how to print or explaining how to figure out a bus schedule, it made me giddy to know that people were presenting me with problems, and I was solving those problems for them.

Do I think I'll ever really accept that I have to give up the better half of my waking day, 5 days a week, to something else with no say in the matter?  No, of course not.  But for the first time I actually understood how working life could at least be bearable.  I realized how true it was that workplace satisfaction comes from feeling like your contribution matters.

The good news about the librarian career is that you do get opportunities to do things that feel like they matter.  So if it were actually possible for me to get fully employed in this field, I really would have something to look forward to.

Not only is the work itself not bad, but add on the fact that, while not many people will ever get rich in this field, librarian is a job that, for now, if you were to get it, you wouldn't be starving (assuming you're not living outside of your means).  Also, that was a lot of commas.

Put that all together and this is a career where I could put in a days work, come home feeling like I did something that mattered, and greet a spouse whom I do not argue with over money all the time because I do not have a minimum wage job that forces us to live check to check, paying off one credit card bill with another credit card, and never fully knowing how we'll make rent.  Instead, we live comfortably within our means and, though never rich, aren't constantly stressed out over money either.  That's a pretty damn good life.  In fact, I couldn't ask for better (I'm already assuming the spouse is hot.  With as hot as I am, it goes without saying).

That's the life I could hypothetically have, if only this profession, as nice as it can be if I ever make it to that side of the rainbow, weren't completely devoid of opportunity.  If only this career path had a somewhat reasonable expectation of job placement, it would be pretty sexy.

Yes, I'm thankful for the fact that librarian would be a good job, of only librarian jobs were out there.  I suppose that's about as useful as saying that I'm thankful for how delicious unicorns would be if only they existed, but hey, I said I was going to say something positive.

Subterranean homelife blues

You may now be wondering, if I’m really making so little money, how is it possible that I’m, you know, alive?  I wouldn’t be a proper failure if I couldn’t tell you, without a trace of jesting, that I still live with my parents. 

I am 29, nearing 30, and live with my parents.  That doesn’t make me sound like a failure yet?  You say there’s an increasing trend of adults post-college who are being supported by their parents, and I’m in fairly good company and not completely pathetic?  Ok, wait a second.  Let me be more specific.

I’m currently 29 years old, almost 30, and I live in my parents’ basement.

I have no idea why living in their basement makes me a bigger loser than living with them in general.  I know it does, but I’m not sure why, and I find it interesting that it works that way.  When I meet people I will tell them without hesitation that I live with my parents.  Might as well, you know?  But if I even remotely care what that person thinks of me, I will intentionally avoid giving them any kind of indication that I live in the basement.  There are people who have known me for years and know that I live with my parents, but still don't know I happen to be underground.

It’s not like I’m in the basement because I happen to think it’s good to be there or anything.  It’s just that after I initially left during college, my sister got my old room and her old room became a computer room.  The basement is just where there was room for my bed, that’s all.  Not that I’m making excuses, it's just a fact.

And it's not like I spend all of my time down there taking drugs and playing video games, as per the stereotype.  I've never so much as tried illicit drugs, and.... ok, I do enjoy video games, but not at the expense of having a job or trying to have one.  I play when I have time, and it's not that often these days.  I still realize that doesn't make it sound any better.

Either way I live with my parents because I’m a grown adult who is more or less a waste of a life.  Would this situation really be improved if I slept across the hall from them rather than downstairs?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the perception, I’m just wondering where it comes from.

In any event, that’s my life.  I work as an instructor at a college, then I come home to my parents’ basement and grade college papers.  Imagine if my students knew that.