“The first duty of a human being is to assume the right functional relationship to society — more briefly, to find your real job, and do it.”  – Charlotte Perkins Gilman

I don’t know what I want to be. When I was very young I thought I would be a ballerina or an archeologist, preferably both. Then I chunked out and learned the Holy Grail was not an historical artifact. And I’ve been at a loss ever since. I think maybe I’ve been waiting for a calling bestowed by some angel or another, even since I realized that those lucky enough to have a career rather than a job have just gone ahead and chosen something, learned the vocabulary and stuck with it. It seems more about commitment than grace. 

I have a problem with paralysis in the face of proaction. Though I like to work hard and will dedicate myself entirely to the proper project.  I’ve often wondered if something manual and laborish might suit me. It would get me out of my head, where I too often live and provide the physical exertion a former/forever chubby child requires. My fear of heights, coveralls and dirty hands indicates a trade such as construction or the plumbing arts is not the right path for me. I get dizzy, claustrophobic and depressed in an office; overexposure to the humming of computer screens and florescent lights makes me feel bizarre. I’ve tried out myriad environments in an effort to find the thing I love to do most but have only come up with negatives, crossing off various professions and positions from the list. In contemplating reentering the world I am forced to confront my constant companion from the years 1995 through 2006: worrying about work. In this time I held between twenty and thirty-six jobs, in my best estimation. Because I am confused and concerned I’ve decided to make an investigation of my past, to pore over my work history, hoping to discover a hidden aptitude amid the rubble of discarded vocations. Perhaps a clue will reveal itself in recounting the stories of jobs I’ve had. This might be the story of my right livelihood.

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