Well folks, I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth, though I could see how one might think so since it’s been almost 2 months since my last post. I certainly would have preferred to be blogging than dealing with the madness of finishing grad school and searching desperately (and so far, fruitlessly) for employment. But things have slowed down enough that I think I can resume my regular, and often therapeutic, blogging. Yes, somehow even when I’m blogging about my latest recipes or wonderful finds it’s oddly cathartic. Perhaps it’s because I get so excited to share my latest discovery that I’m bursting at the seams and just can’t wait to tell someone?! (On that note, stay tuned for a later post about my life changing discovery of delicious gluten-free bread! Real bread! With good texture and taste!)
All the craziness and excitement of finishing grad school has been somewhat overshadowed by the stress of trying to find a job. Yes, in my last post I’d mentioned an interview, but as you can tell, that unfortunately didn’t work out. That’s been the only bite so far, and I’ve applied for so many jobs it makes me sick. Obviously the need for a paycheck ASAP is becoming more and more anxiety provoking, but equally bothersome to me is the lack of purpose that I feel. I started my first job almost 15 years ago, and since then I’ve had either a job, a couple jobs and/or school…and a few weeks ago, suddenly I had nothing. That Monday after graduation what the longest day of my life. I’ve been going stir crazy, obviously trying to keep busy with the job search and stuff around the house and studying for my licensing exam…but I feel purposeless. I like getting up and knowing I’m contributing toward something bigger…enjoying other people’s company…troubleshooting and thinking critically. I don’t get to be part of something anymore, and I don’t get the intellectual stimulation that I crave. And boy am I restless.
Since I (regretably) have all this free time on my hands, I’ve been trying to spend some of it outside. I have to say, Chicago in the summer is really phenomenal, so I suppose I ought to be happy that I get to go enjoy some time at the lake and in the parks. As I was walking around the other day, I was stopped and asked for directions. A little while later while running errands, I was stopped again! While considering that I must get asked for directions more than the average person, a third person approached me and asked…I kid you not! 3 times within 24 hours is my new record, though I usually average about once or twice a week. While I was thinking about this, I chuckled to myself as I thought, “I must look like a girl who knows where she’s going!”
What’s most amusing to me about this is that I am a transplant, having moved to Chicago about 7 years ago. Apparently, I must look like a native since people seem to think I know where things are…though I usually do. As I took the bus down Addison, past Wrigley Field, past my old neighborhood, I started to remember my first few weeks in Chicago. In fact, my first few weeks in Chicago were technically spent in the suburbs. My very generous aunt and uncle offered to let me stay with them until I got a place to live and had a job lined up. So for about a month, I would take the train into the city in the morning and spend the day checking out apartments and dropping off resumes before taking the train back out to the ‘burbs in the evening. I had been here a few times before to visit friends and my (now) husband, but the city was huge…bigger than Minneapolis where I’d gone to college…and much, much bigger than the little cornfield in Iowa where I come from. Yet, I never found it intimidating.
Someone once asked me, shortly after I’d moved here, how I’d managed to learn so much of the city so quickly. I told them I spent a month getting lost and finding my way again. I’d get off one train at the Metra station and walk a few blocks to the El and then figure out which train to take and where to transfer. I’d look in awe at the huge, shiny buildings that whizzed by and whose tops I couldn’t even see from the train windows…and occasionally I’d miss my stop. Gripping the list of addresses I had to visit, I’d casually stroll off the train and non-chalantly make my way to the platform for the train going back the way I’d come from, walking confidently and trying to non-verbally convince those around me that I absolutely meant to be here and definitely didn’t mean to get off two stops ago. And though I had a map with me, I rarely took it out in plain view, having planned the night before where to walk from the train to get to where I needed to go. Like any good Chicagoan, I quickly oriented myself to the lake to get my bearings, but even so, I’d sometimes get turned around or take a hard right instead of a soft right at a 6 way intersection. But when I got lost, I didn’t worry or panic…I’d just go back to the last place where I had my bearings and go from there. I may not have known where I was, but I knew where I had been and I knew where I was going.
And I still know.
I know where I’m headed, but sometimes routes have to change when you come upon something unexpected. I’m not a big fan of detours…in fact, I really prefer not to stray from my perfectly mapped out plan. But just because I’m not where I’d like to be doesn’t mean I’m lost. And I won’t be intimidated by this big unknown, either.
After all, I’m the girl who knows where she’s going.
