You can do anything for a year. These are the words of my old college professor who exhorted, from experience, that you can stick anything out for that amount of time. So what's four months, or four weeks? A sinch? I'm having trouble with one day. I enjoy the stage of life we're at right now, but am antsy to do something. The worst part is, I'm not sure what that something may be, and therein lies the problem. I don't know that there is one thing I want to do. In fact, I am certain that there are a myriad of things I would enjoy doing or being – but alas, I've only got so much time. I can't go back to school to study journalism while I memorize my lines as the lead role in the upcoming community musical, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. We've only got so much room in this one-bedroom apartment; I suppose I could clear out the washer and dryer and use that space for a potter's wheel and drying rack but I doubt our landlord would be so gung-ho over my keeping a kiln in the kitchen on account of the fact that a previous tenant caught the place on fire just five years ago. Plus, my dust-covered clothing would only inhibit my need-be immaculate work in my personal darkroom. And if the kitchen is full of clay equipment, where would my letterpress fit? Being that I'm most creative and productive in the evening hours, my bakery full of every sweet and delicious pastry you could imagine would suffer due to my lack of sleep and therefore lack of judgement whilst preparing the day's goodies at 4 a.m. I pass stores like Banana Republic and Ann Taylor and fantasize about having a career that requires me to wear fabulously professional clothing and pretty shoes, but that doesn't last long. The idea of doing someone else's work for the rest of my life is one of the most discouraging thoughts. (Thanks, Mom and Dad, entrepreneurs extraordinaire). My professional yard saling business could easily be run on the side to any other profession as it's seasonal and just two days a week. But then there's the issue of running the quaint little shop that holds the unique and fabulous yard sale finds... Those strength assessment tests you're forced to take in high school always told me that I should become a florist, which wouldn't be so bad except the test didn't take my allergies into consideration, and I don't think I would want to work in a profession so closely tied to funerals. We can't forget to schedule the year that I would dedicate to my rock and roll band tour – just the continental USA, to begin with. And the monthly food critic write ups of fabulous dishes at fantastic restaurants. There's the summer in Ocracoke, North Carolina to squeeze in, not to mention the majority of Europe which Ben and I plan on exploring while he writes and writes and I eat and eat, snapping an occasional photo for our coffee table book collaboration. Somewhere along the line I'd like to have a family, and I hear those take up some time. I'm certain that my up and coming film would only benefit from such diverse life experiences and inevitable connections that I'll have made along the way. At least I've got time before I begin working on my memoir, which is certain to be entertaining. (Ben has instructed me that usually the writer waits for certain individuals to pass on before revealing all the good juicy stuff, but don't worry, I'm taking notes along the way). Really, I don't think it's an issue of time. With enough motivation, the majority of these things could be accomplished (some after hours and hours of vocal training...), it's just that I do like to eat, and as much as Ben doesn't, he sees the necessity in it. So for a while, at least, I'll continue to march alongside (or a bit before), the millions of early riser, nine-to-fiver population and be grateful to be employed at all. But don't think I'm not weighing my options all the while.
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