This week marks the start of my transition to full-time employment. After 4+ years of dilly-dallying as a part-timer, some extenuating circumstances at my workplace presented me with the opportunity to work 40 hours a week. And because I really, really need the money, I said, “Sign me up.”
There are perks. I get my own office and a brand new chair. A Malaga, the brochure tells me. It’s quite comfortable, though I can’t say if it’s truly as spectacular as the Spanish province for which it was named.
On one hand, I feel like I’ve sold a piece of my soul to the working world. On the other, I’m thinking, “At least I got a good price for it!” I mean, heck, a Malaga! And double my original part-time salary doesn’t hurt either, I suppose.
But looking at the big picture, my heart is saying, “This isn’t what I want for myself.”
It’s not that I don’t like my job, but I definitely don’t love it. I tolerate it, and it’s tolerable. It pays the bills, and once in a while allows me the opportunity to be creative, but for the most part, it’s monotonous, tedious work. Up until now, that’s been okay, because it’s had a very small space in my life. Now it will have a much larger space, and that’s a bit depressing.
Despite four years of college and a year off from school, I still don’t know what the heck I want to do. The last year of aimlessness was nice, but it wasn’t particularly enlightening. Not much has changed on the “ultimate lifetime goal” front, except now my checkbook is calling me some ugly four-letter words. I suppose there’s something to be said for gritting your teeth and doing what you have to do to get by. I’m just a little worried that my heart’s going to get lost in the shuffle.