Supressing the Urge: Part 2

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

May 14, 2008

"Touche." It's hard to keep everyone straight in this allergen-clogged noggin of mine. Just last night I congratulated someone on his December graduation: "Andrew, that's so exciting!" Sweet, right? His name is Jonathan.

Ben is talking. "The personal finance seminar was interesting, too; the presenter was a trader who made this analogy that the stock market is like a python, see, and how when you're getting swallowed by a python you have to hold still --"

"And wait 'til it gets to your knees, and once it's stuck you can cut your way out." Ben looks at me, startled. "What? That's sage advice. I bet Elizabeth knows it," I say, looking at our friend whose first order of business post-grad was a six-month tour of South America.

She smiles. "I dunno, Derby. What snakes have you wrestled since graduation?"

I grin back at her. "I went to that seminar last year." I shrug as we climb through the chapel door. "Of course I can use that advice like I can use a hole in my head."

Ben nods. "Yeah, pythons aren't that common in Jersey."

We scooch into a front-row pew. "No, that part was actually helpful. I mean, I'm more likely to get attacked by a deadly tree snake than I am to earn investable wealth in the next decade."

Elizabeth and Ben nod in agreement. Though we're all afflicted by liberal arts poverty, we also understand it doesn't matter. That's the beauty of academic escapism -- we get so caught up in theories and equations and brave new worlds that we forget to fear practicalities in this one After all, the 'real world' is only miserly if you want to earn a specific salary. Merit has nothing to do with it; there is no final test to pass, no SAT to sail through before someone, somewhere will cut you a paycheck. Thank God.

Speaking of God: "I've never had a class in the Chapel before," I whisper. "It feels so righteous."

There's a pause and I realize the room is silent. A handful of students turn to look in my direction. William and Mary peer down at the pews from deeply-carved frames.

Then the introductory speaker continues his prelude. "Voices really carry in here," Elizabeth hisses. "Moral acoustics."

Aha. Then: "Welcome to the swamp," a deep voice booms. I look up from my lap to the professor in the pulpit. "It's missed you." He is much smaller than his voice implies. "Thank you all for coming today," he begins. "You're a bunch of diehards, that's for sure. Back to the alma mater AND class on a Saturday? Wow. And to listen to a lecture about history, of all things. MEDEIVAL history. The Dark Ages." He pauses and surveys his flock. "I think it would be wise to begin, as I always do for my new students, with a discussion of why anyone would ever study this kind of history. Or any kind of history, for that matter..."

So this small, unassuming man, sporting intense facial hair and an intellect to match, begins our education. His thoughts lead us from our tiny dark-paneled room to scattered homes and across the world, from the present to our most distant past. His jokes are hilarious and self-aware, but a kind of restlessness creeps into his voice when he catches on the core of his discussion. Learning, he says, is the most vital thing. You must learn because you don't know the answers. He tells us to study other cultures because they are different from our own.

With a twist of an old adage, he challenges that who we are and where we're going are small matters compared to that which came before us. He talks about discovering the ties that bind, roots of humanity that transcend lifestyle and locale, morality and myth. Study people and places you'll never know, he says, because your eyes will change. Your vision will become that of one who understands that life, human life, is more than a scratch at the surface of things.

As his voice fills the room, swallowing vaulted spaces above, I realize that we are together in this. We are here because we believe these things, too. His shifting of weight and unfurling sentences, a steady flow of concepts and passion shimmering in the air around us--these are the movements of a restless mind. The struggle is palpable, familiar. How can we encompass and change the world? How do we describe great landscapes of mind when words can only hint at the edges of things?

Understanding is narrow as the pew I'm sitting in. Desire to learn is as vast as the sky. So for a few moments we are all caught here together, a rush of language lifting us above the chapel, above verdant fields, toward the last-gasp distance of starry unknown. In the skip of a heartbeat, the length of a speech, we can unveil just a scrap of the eternal shifting mystery. For now, we know, this must be enough.

At least until our next optional lecture.

Supressing the Urge: Part 1

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

May 1, 2008

Approaching Wren from Confusion Corner, I can't help but think of graduation. Picture-perfect sky, crushing crowds, faces shining with sweat and excitement--I don't see a trace of them now. Granted, it would be totally disturbing if the Class of 2007 was still milling around the back lawn, but even after 11 months, I expect these spaces to feel the same. I remember when I lost my friends in a sea of black mortarboards and color-scrap tassels; now I can identify, even from a distance, every brush-stroke blemish on high school hopefuls clustered near the chapel. An occasional flick of rain causes anxious mothers to crane their necks heavenward (laughable gestures for any Tidewater-typhoon veteran). The tour guide (who I would have known a year ago) ploughs ahead, his facts and figures ponderous as storm clouds above.

As I approach I suppress the urge to shout "I BLEED GREEN AND GOLD!"* Instead I slip through the group and touch a standing sentry at the door. Like uneven bricks and cast-iron statues, it is a bit of flesh on my ephemeral history.

Suddenly I am misty-eyed. This campus is so beautiful, flush with traditional symmetry, an edifice and landscape of centuries-old design. I look around with tear-sparkled vision, mooning over paper-thin tree leaves, grass sparks between careful walkways, a chattering squirrel's hen-pecked scurry.

Then I realize that a prospective, a girl about my sister's age, watches me with a withering stare. Ah yes, high school -- that bastion of social posturing. I want to assure her that it's okay, that facial fisticuffs and popularity will soon be a thing of the past. (Especially if she decides to come to William and Mary.) But when I smile she looks off-put and quickly turns away. Alright, alright, I'll respect the PR fantasy and leave college recruitment alone. Besides, I've got to stop dilly-dallying -- there's a lecture about to start.

It's Young Guarde Weekend, you see, a three-day event that caters to young alumni with intellectual stimulation, Tribe Pride, and buffet-induced gluttony. Last night we had a mixer in the Sunken Garden, chatter excited by absence, embraces multiplied by unlimited beer from the Leafe. As I reconnected over catered cheese, pinning recent grads' locations, occupations, and M.O.s in my mind, the 'real world' began to feel small again.

Now it's Saturday and I'm curious to see who will brave the light of day, which former classmates share my deranged desire to attend an optional lecture. Because I miss academics. I miss mulling over papers; I miss noting professorial wisdom. I miss listening to esoteric lectures in halls with gales upon which I might hark.

Today's class is in the chapel. Perfect.

I round the corner and cross the lawn. I know it's my imagination, but in the warm summer wind I feel Wednesday night starlight, hear faint a capella voices echo beneath the archways.

Or not. "Hey, Derby," someone calls. "Did you just wake up?"

I wave a hello to the girls sitting on marble steps and scowl at Ben. He rolls his eyes with a wide, welcoming smile.

"I actually woke up four hours ago," I explain, "but I was at my friend's house off-campus and had left my car in the church lot last night. I didn't know how to get back again because there was some back route that I wasn't sure of, so I had to wait--"

"Can the excuses, Derby." Ben is on the verge of laughter. I frown.

"Uh, okay." I grab the edge of my skirt and address the girls. "This business casual code is killing me. Is it obvious that I'm covered in pollen?"

They look at my polka-dot dress thoughtfully. "Not until you mentioned it," Elizabeth says, pointing to a small smear of yellow.

"Yeah," I say, looking back at Ben. "Because it turns out we had to walk across a little stream and some railroad tracks and climb over bushes and through someone's backyard to get here." Pause. "It only took 15 minutes, though."

"Sounds great," Elizabeth offers.

"Actually, yeah, it was pretty fun. A nice way to start the morning." I do a little twirl as they stand. We start walking toward the chapel entrance. "So did you go to the first lecture? Was it amazing?"

"It was really good, actually. The professor was talking about humor and how it works. He was really funny."

"Clutch."

"This guy's supposed to be pretty funny, too," Ben says.

I shake my head. "You're opting out on the Career Center networking?"

"Derby, I work here. I already know everyone anyway."

* Alternately: "SERIOUSLY CONSIDER BUSINESS SCHOOL!"

Girls with pancake makeup and dark unitards

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

April 7, 2008

It's that time of year again. That time when daffodils open their cheery trumpet-mouths to sing and I stalk the CVS half-price bins to binge-eat Cadbury Cream Eggs. That magical time of year when my 16-year-old sister and I hunt for Easter eggs in the backyard and still need guidance ("look where I'm pointing") from my mother. Yes, spring is the perfect time to step outside, take a deep breath of fresh air, and immediately step back inside because its still so darn cold out. A time of growth and new beginnings.

Which is one reason it's strange that I'm wandering around my old high school. Another is the fact that the kids are all in costume, glittery pipe cleaners and mountainous wigs cascading in waves of neon yellow and pink down Spandex-clad shoulders. These students are space-age Munchkins in a retooled version of The Wiz, a storyline conceived and directed by the same woman who led my high school musicals. It's a week before show time. The first run with full hair and makeup.

This is what happens when you live at home -- a worm-hole opens in the time-space continuum and four years of college collapse, vanish. Maneuvering through the Day-Glo hoards, I feel like Alice in business casual. The children, the lobby -- everything feels small, awkward and tight. It's been a while since I was the one swathed in yards of crinoline, sporting a faux-bouffant and trilling through warm-ups for a standout role as Ambiguous Chorus Girl.

As I reach out, the wooden auditorium doors explode open, and two members of tech crew dash from the theater's yawning mouth. Their words are hushed, feverish, and the long black strokes of their bodies disappear almost instantly.

Crisis in scene construction! An errant stage hand is wearing -- color!

Oh, the glory of performance anxiety. I can't even imagine how the leads are feeling. I used to sweat in time with the orchestral prelude.

I squint into the darkness and look for my mom. My stomach actually starts getting butterflies. I want a familiar face here on Memory Lane.

Onstage Auntie Em shivers, shielding her eyes against imaginary sunlight shafting across a tornado sky. I sit on near the stage left aisle, and my mom leans over to whisper. "You made it. They're just starting."

"Aha." Girls with pancake makeup and dark unitards sway in time like a laundry line. Auntie Em looks concerned.

"Did you see your old classmate? The director's daughter?"

I shake my head no, which is pretty pointless. Our conversation is in profile; we're too busy watching the stage to look at one another.

"Well, she's sitting near the front. Near her mom. I think she has the baby with her."

Baby?

I get up and inch my way past a row of absent audience, crouching down as I approach this potentially shocking snippet of personal history.

"Hi," I whisper. When she turns to look at me, long red hair falls in a curtain across the baby in her lap. She quickly tucks it away (her hair, not the baby). "Sarah," I say, "your baby's adorable." The words feel thick and weird. She gives me a tired smile, the look of someone used to such compliments and to run-down too care if they're true. "You probably don't remember me," I continue, rushing to speak as though giving birth has made her ephemeral, about to like a ghost in the stage lights. "My name is Elizabeth Derby. It used to be longer, back in high school. Elizabeth Vanderleur Derby, actually. But, you know, I dropped it because it was too hard to pronounce. For other people to pronounce, I mean."

The baby starts gurgling, and Sarah produces a spoonful of yogurt from nowhere. Woah. When the little girl is happily gumming the utensil, Sarah turns to look at me. "I do remember you," she says. "High school just feels like a long time ago."

"I'll bet," I say, choking a little. Maybe I'm not so grown-up after all. The baby's soft head sports a fine thatch of delicate red hair. I wonder if she'll sing one day. Well, she's adorable," I repeat. "I mean, she's just so small."

"Actually, her sister is the one who's tiny," Sarah informs me. She starts bouncing the baby on her knee. "She was only born a week ago. But she's home with daddy now, isn't she?" she coos. "You're a big sister now, aren't you? Say, 'I'm a big sister!'"

Good God, this girl had ANOTHER baby LAST WEEK? Apparently my time since high school has been a lot less productive than I thought.

"Uh, well, it was good to see you," I whisper, backing away. "Congratulations again."

She nods, mostly to herself, and continues feeding her child. ONE of them. Sheesh.

All the talk of sisters does remind me why I'm here, though. I plop back into my seat just as Dorothy finishes the first of several power ballads. The meager audience claps and the lights onstage flicker to life. Suddenly my sister is in the spotlight. Her typical short brown bob has been swapped from a bright yellow pageboy. Sporting green John Deere coveralls and a long yellow unitard, she looks more like a scarecrow than I'd have suspected. Her yellow gloves cut against the dark background, drawing perfect attention to limp wrists, her arms draped in suggestion of a body full of straw. Even from back here I can see her eyes slo-o-owly rolling after Dorothy. The 'psst!' that follows is like a shot.

Dorothy looks into her hand-basket. "Oh no, Toto. I know scarecrows can't talk."

"Hey, lady," my sister calls, her voice thick with sass and Southern drawl. "You got any ... spare change?"

So begins a dialogue we've been polishing for months. Her delivery is perfect, jokes cracking like fire, her language taking wing. The meager audience laughs. The kids backstage are cracking up. My sister never falters, and I feel I'm riding the rollercoaster, too -- the swift ascent of being that follows fear, the trough and crest of lighting eyes that twinkle beyond the spotlight. In a week it will be opening night and the audience will stand and clap like thunder. They will whistle till their mouths go dry.

Nearly empty except in memory, the auditorium brims with light. Shadows are eclipsed by my little sister's brilliance, the thrill in my mother's transfixed expression. I can see my sister through years at this moment, in a curl of eyebrow and flush of cheek the woman that watches and hopes she will fly. This is the moment that time lets go, the prismatic instant we vault toward the sky. How could our family be higher than this?

Then Patricia opens her mouth to sing.

Mindless Tasks and Mental Vacations

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

March 17, 2008

OK. I need to have a word with my generation.

Granted, I don't know who that is. Maybe I mean Gen X, or Gen Y, or Gen Zee/Zed. Maybe I mean '80s babies; maybe I mean naught-based Neo-Boomers. Just go ahead and assume that if you remember any of the following:

Reading Rainbow
anything tie-dye
Pogs
neon scrunchies = fierce

You can go ahead and assume I'm talking to you.

So. I've heard some rumors. Unflattering rumors. A lot of people -- older, worldlier, wealthier people -- have been saying some pretty terrible things. I've heard it said that we, as a generation, are lazy and reliable. Some have called us commitment-phobic; others comment that we expect a corner office when we merit scum-sucker status. Having just entered the workforce myself, I feel this situation begs the question: am I eligible for the corner office?

No, wait a minute. What I meant to ask was where are these rumors coming from? Did one of you start them to add to our social intrigue? Are we all a bunch of poseurs feigning self-importance because looking cool is still highest priority? Or are we really just a bunch of ninnies, overindulged by Baby Boomer parents and coddled to the point that our sense of desert rivals American Manifest Destiny? Holy cow, are these rumors true??

I don't want to believe they are. Yet I've heard it said -- in magazines, at temp agencies, at the water cooler -- than today's junior staffers have high, often unrealistic expectations which manifest as aggravated (and aggravating) superiority complexes. One woman went so far as to say she hasn't had a hardworking assistant -- defined as someone willing to do rote-though-otherwise-meaningful tasks -- in the last five years. Uh-oh. Wasn't it five years ago that the first of us traded our Trapper Keepers for leather-bound portfolios? Do we really expect more reward for less effort, lucrative compensation for lackluster performance, back flips for an absence of facial piercings?

My at-work firewall won't even let me look at photos of facial piercings!

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for freedom of self-expression. Carpe diem and such. The pursuit of happiness is our prerogative, so if a bejeweled septum is your ticket to the good life, have at it. We have every right to decide that our entry-level abilities -- to photocopy, to Photoshop, to drink coffee and browse Facebook -- are worth no less than $500/hour. (Why not? I have.) But as we hunt for the professional Xanadu which will rightly reward our abilities, chances are high that we'll take a job to tide us over. (Assuming we want to eat and haven't got a silver spoon.)

So the problem becomes not a matter of ability or talent but attitude. Frankly, this is the hardest part of life after college -- not finding work or keeping a job but reminding yourself what good will come from working hard in the first place. If you're an unpaid intern who works at the Home of the Whopper to pay the rent while you pay your dues, you may very well associate the smell of frying oil with the stench of thwarted dreams. The question "do you want fries with that?" becomes the ham-handed punch line of a sadistic, sarcastic universe. You're ready to quit or at minimum trigger an apocalyptic wave of strawberry froth by short-circuiting the milkshake machine.

This is when attitude comes into play.*

First of all, you should probably put down that squeezy bottle full of ketchup. Indelible stains will get you nowhere. Secondly, it would help to remember why you took the job in the first place. If money is your only object, bear in mind that there are plenty of ways to earn a living (only some of which involve the removal of bodily fluids). Does the thought of clock-in make your skin crawl? If asked to describe the best part of your workday, would you say 'when it's over'? Your life and time really are precious, so bust out the resume if you'd be happier somewhere else.

More frequently, however, the tedium sourcing 20-something heart palpitations is temporary. For example, I worked at a CVS Photo Lab in high school. (Yes, we look at your one-hour photos. In the future, you might want to send those soapy shower scenes to be processed at an overnight facility.) While I highly enjoyed developing film, I was never a big fan of replenishing the vitamin aisle or moderating customers' softening vs. non-softening laxative debate. But so what? If jobs were endlessly enjoyable, nobody would pay me to do one. On the other hand, if I made the most of my situation -- found pleasure in organizing candy bars and mirth in scanning tampons -- and conducted myself with reliability and respect, I could earn good assignments as well as a paycheck. After agreeing to pick up every little bit of paper on the floor when the vacuum cleaner finally bit it, I never had to clean the store again.

I guess what I'm getting at is that the option to quit will always exist, but until you're ready to man up to poverty (or flee into higher academia's warm, debt-riddled embrace) it may be helpful to take a fresh look at your horizons. Just because your boss asks you to file something doesn't mean you've been demoted. It could be that you're an assistant, paid to assist the person who is paying you. Take the mindless tasks as mental vacations. If you do your job and do it well, you'll get attention enough to showcase your talents -- and interests. You may not be promoted a month after starting, but neither was your boss. Our generation will have it all -- money, prestige, those magnetic rhythmic pendulum paperweights -- but we have to earn it first.

And for heaven's sake, lay off the self-importance. People are going to start rumors.

* By the way, I don't think that fast food or the food service industry in general is the definitive or only source of unfulfilling employment. Actually, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that many people at Mickey D's like and appreciate their jobs. (Thank goodness, as they are probably the only reason I've never found spit in my burger.) Any job that stifles the passions or under/overloads mental capacity is a bad match. The specifics are different for everyone.

Americans CAN'T LIVE without a burst of freshness

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

February 12, 2008

Ooo-ooo-ooo. Somebody's been a slacker.

It's been about 20,000 weeks since I posted. I admit it. I planned on using the old "I've been thwarted in production by my own impossible standards" chestnut, but then I read Britney's blog.

Oh, that's right. Some people go to law school. Some people forgo socializing in favor of library hours; some people didn't spend Super Bowl Sunday saluting the underdog with glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, couch-ridden Doritos inhalation. The most mentally taxing activity of my weekend was deciding if I could stomach another Eli Victory Monologue in order to see the new episode of House.*

OK, maybe that's a tad unfair. There was only one Manning Monologue, playing on loop. Plus I did spend a lot of time this past month obsessing about a post for this very blog, but it's not finished, and I refuse to turn it over until I'm happy with it. I am quite picky about my writing, and my normal mid-workweek slack off/revision time has been severely hampered of late. More specifically, candles have come to consume the majority of my waking hours.

Just to clarify, I work as the assistant in marketing for the world's second-largest fragrance house. (Basically it's big business for a commercial market you probably didn't know existed.) I work in Home Care -- everything that smells except for perfume and cologne. One minute I'm scouring databases for pie charts about scented car litter, the next I'm sniffing candle fragrance samples and invoking the muse to inspire a creative title for 'rhubarb vanilla citrus' scent.

Welcome to "real life" and "applicable work skills". Sheesh.

Actually, I rather enjoy the creative aspects of this job. And despite the fact that we operate in a world of total fantasy ("this aerosol IS autumn incarnate", "Americans CAN'T LIVE without a burst of freshness in their laundry hampers"), my coworkers do maintain a sense of perspective.

Here's a good example: last week two of us were mulling over benefits for a new air care device. This wasn't the first time we'd forced ourselves to sing its praises; at this point we'd been flogging the same mental horse for weeks. My coworker underscored an aspect we'd touched on hundreds of times, and I nodded vigorously. "That might actually make me care about air care," I said.

She looked at me.

"Uh, if I were a consumer," I added. "Of course I care desperately about it, as a part of this team."

My coworker made a gagging sound.

In short, the work I do does matter -- I keep things flowing in the high-stakes world of air freshener development -- but it's definitely not saving babies or curing cancer. I'm OK with that. For one thing, the glamorous stardom of a Superwoman lifestyle would be really taxing. For another, I just found out that my temp-to-perm status has been changed to permanent temp, at least for the 2008 fiscal year. In other words, the head honchos handed down a departmental budget with no room for another salaried employee.

I'm not particularly saddened by this recent turn of events. Labels don't matter if the paycheck is right -- marketing assistant, permanent temp, full-time minion -- they're just variations on a theme, really. And best of all, I still have my little red escape button.**

To work off the eternal guidance counselor cliche, if life is a car, then you're in the driver's seat. The dashboard offers a host of devices to navigate the world outside -- coping-wipers to slough away the slush of emotional build-up, witty DJs of internal monologue to keep you sane at rush hour. As a person grows up she accumulates these widgets and many more besides, along with the occasional flat tire, a dent or scratch here and there. Bumps in the road teach us how to deal with the unexpected, to monitor air pressure like mounting stress levels and refresh our spirits every 10,000 miles with an oil change.***

But to reorient myself in this mire of metaphor, let me return to the red escape button. It looks just like the one in the GadgetMobile or a Wile E. Coyote pratfall setup; if you press it, click, boing, and you're ejected through the sunroof and parachuting toward a brighter landscape. When you're young and unattached, it's obvious and accessible, right near your emergency brake or illegal radar detector. But when you make big life choices -- commit to a job or a Ph.D., for example -- it suddenly gets a whole lot harder to find. Your life might be careening toward the edge of a cliff, but that darn eject button is hidden under the baby's safety seat, or inside a glove compartment bursting with leases or loans.

Of course springing through the roof at high velocity into the great unknown isn't really the best solution to engine trouble or a loss of control. The point of life is to live it, scary curves and easy downhill grades alike. And besides, you can never eject away from who you are. Surroundings change, but the driving skills that cause a spinout in the first place will always be yours to deal with. I don't imagine that I can evade responsibility forever; I don't even want to. But for now I'm happy to have an easy out. Especially when it comes to air fresheners.

* I did. And by the way, hats off to the WGA. I think it's great that writers made headway toward appropriate compensation, even if America had to suffer three months of crap TV.

** No, I'm not talking about Staples' huge wonking 'Easy button'. I do not own and will never own one of those as frankly I cannot understand their purpose or intrigue. I get it, in theory, but in practice I really don't 'get it', if you know what I mean. It just strikes me as the physical manifestation of the cruel joke marketers play on the world: Wow, now your life is easy! Oh--oh wait--no, not really.

*** Maybe that means taking a vacation, or learning a craft, or camping out in front of Best Buy for three weeks to get the latest version of Wii. Whatever makes you feel alive.

A mildly uneasy limbo

BY ELIZABETH DERBY '07

January 4, 2008

Happy New Year! Whether you're elbows-deep in academia or putting your nose to the professional grindstone, you deserved this holiday, and I hope you enjoyed it. Especially those of you with actual salaries who didn't lose a paycheck every time their company frivolously decided to take a day off -- I hope you really, really enjoyed yourselves.

My new job is enjoyable, thanks, though a tad quirky. Working 'temp-to-perm' is a mildly uneasy limbo, peculiar in the same way I imagine life as a working mother or a mermaid. Your responsibilities and allegiances are far-flung, and even if you find a groove in the working routine, people assume your passions lie elsewhere.* One minute you're at the company Christmas party drinking cheap white wine and singing "Mustang Sally" against your will during New Hire Karaoke; the next you're fielding questions like "So really, what kind of job are you looking for?" It's enough to make a girl want to sprout fish appendages.

It probably doesn't help my sanity that this line of inquiry gives me the professional heebie-jeebies. During job interviews or the friendly fire of unsolicited job advice, I inevitably receive encouragement to share my most secret work-oriented desires. When I respond with a blank stare, the question is invariably posed: "Well, what do you want to do with your life?"

Um.

Listen, people: I currently work as a temp for a company that manufactures smells. Do you really think I'd be here if I knew the answer to that question? I don't know what I want to do, OK? If I KNEW the job I wanted, I'd be pursuing it, and frankly I think it's a SHAM if anyone my age claims to have ANY idea what they want for BREAKFAST, let alone IN LIFE.

But I digress. I suppose I'm still shell-shocked that college -- and this is by no means a slight to the practice -- does virtually nothing to prepare liberal arts majors for life beyond academia. At W&M I prided myself on not being some money-obsessed, network-grubbing business major, but these days I wish I'd had that kind of foresight. Maybe I'd already be greasing the cogs of American capitalism, resplendent in my financial success and the associated inspiration of profound self-discovery.

Or not. On second thought, my ill-preparedness for career-related conversation -- whether eggnog-soaked or hiring-manager-driven -- is less a factor of my English major than a general fact of life. No college degree comes with a certain life plan. I just keep hoping my will arrive by happy accident, that I will stumble onto my neatly packaged adulthood like a gift under the Christmas tree. Now again I've taken down the ornaments, swept up the errant needles, and it is clear that no presents remain. I try to be hopeful; I spin crazy excuses for my confusion. Maybe my adulthood got lost in a truckload of Amazon backorders. Maybe I have to be perfect before my actions merit more than coal. Or maybe I'm waiting for a delivery that will never come.

When I was young, adults were superhuman. They knew everything: true and false, right and wrong, how to tie their shoes. They were masters of the universe, and they went to bed when they felt like it. When I realized it was my parents who ate the Christmas Eve cookies by the fireside, I remained a bright-eyed believer. Adulthood was even more magical than the existence of Santa Claus, and as long as I remained on the Good Girl list, such magic would be mine one day.

In this season of bright wishes and big dreams, it's easy to feel like a child again. Happiness and fulfillment are just around every corner, so long as we know the right places to look, the right gifts to give, the right spirits to praise. If we make correct choices and bide our time, the world will give up its certainties, the mysteries of who we are and what we want. Yet I'm still waiting to learn the right answers, to finally feel that I'm all grown up. What if I never become the hero in the Choose-Your-Adventure of my life?

But maybe heroes don't know the right answers.

Maybe no one ever feels grown up.

Maybe life isn't about being smart, or certain, or ready.

Maybe life just happens, and the bravest, smartest, most certain thing I can do is embrace it. Embrace my sweepingly indescribable dreams instead of trying to outgrow them. Embrace my boundless interest in every bit of the whole wide world and stop trying to encapsulate it, to cut it down, to whittle it into manageable bits for a hiring manager or a cocktail party.

If that's the case, it looks like I got my Christmas wish.

* Like with your children or an underwater cavern full of shipwrecked treasure. Fair enough.