You know how much I love you guys? So much. Who helped us to get over 1,000 fans on Facebook? You guys did. (Well, actually you guys are the fans on Facebook.) Who helped us to get over 2,000 followers on Twitter? You guys. (Again, you guys are the followers. Semantics.) Who helped us win 3rd best local blog in the Washington Post’s Best Night Out of 2009? That was all you. If Meg or I genuinely don’t know something and pose the question to you all, don’t you come up with the answer? Yes. Yes you do. I’m constantly impressed by how awesome all of our readers are. And I mean that. (Thus concludes the schmaltzfest portion of this blog post.)
I know it might not seem like it all the time. I’m sort of like the absentee stepfather of the blog. You had Patsy and Eddie in the beginning, but that was young love and drifted apart, as most young relationships do. Then Meg outed herself [Editor's Note: When Chris says I "outed myself," he means I outed that my real name is Meg and not Patsy. Not that I'm gay. Because I'm not gay. Just wanted to clarify that. K, I'm gonna go lick a chick out now.] and introduced you all to Becca, the new bird. “I don’t know about this, but I’ll give it a fair shake,” was what you all thought, whether you know it or not. But when Becca called it quits, you thought “Meg is the only person I can ever trust around here.” (And I know this for a fact because I can read minds.) Then Meg brought me home one night, and naturally you were suspicious. You kept expecting me to disappear, like all the other birds have. And then you found out I have a drunk texting problem. And hate nerds. And am genuinely not funny sometimes. And now I think you really might hate me. But this extended metaphor has a point! I know it got lost in there (refer back 3 sentences), but it has one. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to do my best to be a better proverbial stepfather to this blog. I’m going to teach it to play catch. Or have tea parties with it. I’m going to go to all it’s school plays and soccer games. I’ll read it stories at night, and make it breakfast in the morning.
And to prove it to you, I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t shared with anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not even co-blogger Meg knows what I’m about to tell you (although by the time you read this, she’ll know, but only because she read this post!).
No, obviously kidding.
I no longer have any idea what I want to do with my life.
It’s not much of a revelation, because I’m sure seven-tenths of you are saying “Yea, neither do I? What makes you so special?” And if you are saying that out loud, to your computer, maybe reel it in just a little bit. But in response, nothing makes me so special. But when you tell everyone you’ve ever known that you’re going to go to medical school and you spend four years as a pre-med student and the following two years after school working at a medical school, when you finally realize this is not for you, it takes you by surprise.
My first thought after this realization immediately was “Oh shit, everyone is going to be so disappointed in me.” In hindsight, this is probably further proof that being a doctor wasn’t what I wanted to do, as I really should give less thought to what everyone else is going to think about what I do with my life. But when your 87-yr-old, invalid shut-in great aunt, who is the sweetest woman on the face of the planet, tells you “I hope I live to see you become a doctor,” it’s hard not to have that echo bouncing around the back of your mind FOR ETERNITY.
Before Meg got her current job as a decorative paperweight, at one point she had an existential crisis because she had no real plan. Her other friends all had life plans, I had med school, but she had no direction. Well, child, I feel your pain. My current job is wearing me down, but if I’m going to look for something, what do I look for? What can I say in my cover letter to make you believe that, regardless of what my resume looks like, I really want to pursue a career in blacksmithing? What do I even want to do? If I could, I would screw all of my responsibilities and spend all day making sick mash-ups and DJ at night. I even picked out a DJ name: DJ Gingerballs. (It’s a work in progress.)
Currently, I’m at a loss. And since this revelation came over me within the past 72 hours, I haven’t really done much soul searching about what I’m going to do with myself. Right now, my current plan is to quit my job, move to DC, and be Meg’s human Snuggie. This will at least get me through the winter months, until it gets too warm to wear a Snuggie 24/7. This is all contingent upon Meg being OK with staring at my mug all the time. Which could get awkward when she goes on dates. [Editor's Note: HAHAHA! Bless your heart.] Or wants some “alone time.” [Editor's Note: That's more probable.] Details.
I’m currently opting to look on the bright side: At least I decided all this before a year of medical school. I saved myself at least 50K in school fees, not to mention I will retain some semblance of a social life, and am now much less likely to suffer a mental break studying the side effects of assorted medications.
In conclusion, I have no conclusion. I’m sure someone else has found themselves in roughly this same situation. Is there a light at the end of this tunnel? Should I just go back to college (listen to lots of Asher Roth) and try and find something else that piques my interest? Should I move to New Mexico to become a world renowned craftsman of silver and turquoise, specializing in bolo ties? Concentrate solely on winning the lottery and living a life of semi-luxury until I M.C. Hammer myself and blow all my money on gold plated gold plates? This is why I love you all so much: because no matter how ridiculous the question, you will inevitably write something. So any suggestions? What would you do if you were me? What have you done? I’m open to consider anything (although I’m not terribly limber, so running off to join the Cirque du Soleil is out). I knew I could count on you.