Dear Pinkie,
I am about to dive into my senior year. Yes, I am part of the elite who opts for one extra semester. It wasn’t really a choice, more a late decision in selecting a major. My undeclared advisor advised me to keep my options open. “Take all sorts of classes, honey.”
I dabbled in a few. I thought I understood Sociology, but realized the social actions of people tend to be far too complicated and theories can only be analyzed for so long. I stumbled into quantitative decision-making, but realized I always avoid math like the annoying drunken men who stumble and blunder toward me during the wee hours of last-call.
Annoyed with taking cushy liberal arts core classes, my last resort was to open the undergrad catalog and skim. I landed on the media studies page, which ignited a small fire. Journalism, public relations, media criticism, this sounded interesting. I see myself on the 29th floor of a classy skyscraper, looking out my window with a view of a gorgeous city skyline while copywriting for Crate and Barrel.
I had found, for the moment, my profession: media studies.
But media studies can not be the major of my entire life. My voyage of writing papers, internships and reporting for The Free Press will soon be docked with only a few semesters left.
What is next for an aspiring gal who wants to make waves in this world?
Fondly,
Knows where she wants to go, but forgot her nautical chart.
***
Dear knows where she wants to go, but forgot her nautical chart
I have the perfect remedy. What you need is a dose of city life, and I’m not talking about moving to the West End in Portland. I’m talking NYC. The pleasant aroma of blintzes. The buzz of people speaking in 27 different languages while strolling along the sidewalks. You won’t need a nautical chart, let alone a map.
Of course, I would not advise driving in mid-town Manhattan. It is not the easiest thing in the world, with cars zooming past in a flash of colors, the cacophony of assorted horns beeping. It takes a special knack and some long deep breaths to keep your cool. But there is really no need to get nervous, because you can never really get lost. At worst, you might just be unsure of your direction.
But being unsure is ok; more often than not it’s a good thing.
My direction always stems from my mood. I’m a heart thinker. It starts with a journey to lovely Canal Street to indulge in some knock-offs. When I lived in the city in my early 20s I always wanted to have a Prada bag or Burberry scarf for a sixth of its original cost, regardless of the tiny glitches, the misspelling of Prada or the not-so-cashmere scarf.
Sometimes having a fake posh item is amusing, but the thrill quickly fades. “Extravagant” items are not the true emblems of your success (even though I swear by Laura Lee Woods’s advice “My mother always told me: Stay out of the sun, buy good handbags, good shoes, and don’t drink cheap booze”).
Shiny and fancy things are not substitutes for hard work. Hard work is the platform that determines where we will be in four years. Of course we integrate our fantasies into our real world. We suddenly stand up from our office chairs and strike a pose while standing on some imaginary plush red carpet in our own personal Hollywood. Perhaps we might choose to sip delightful drinks while dancing in Rio.
Whatever fantasy floats your boat, just make sure you are able to steer and land it once in a while.
My best wishes to you,
Pinkie