When the doors are shut

The other day, I got stuck in an elevator.

I’m gonna make this relate to my last post, I swear.  Just bear with me.

I had been in a basement conference room of my think-tank, participating in an evening event.  I had left my bag and coat at my desk upstairs, on the 6^th floor, but had forgotten that the building closed at 7. Which means the elevators don’t work normally after 7. It was nearing 7:30.

Not a problem, I thought, I’ll just check in with the security guard in the lobby and he can help me out.

My friends clustered in the lobby, promising to wait while I retrieved my things. The security guard accompanied me back to the elevators and swiped an electronic passcode thingie (I’m sure that’s the technical term) to open the doors.

“Which floor?” he asked, as I stepped inside.

“The sixth.” He pressed the appropriate button and moved away. “Wait, don’t you have to come wi– ??” I started, concerned that my think-tank would let some random girl – who, after all, could be anybody – wander through the building after hours. What if there were state secrets just “lying around”?

Whatever, I shrugged to myself as the elevator started up.  Bing! First floor.

Then, the elevator shuddered to a halt. No happy little Bing – be happy, you reached the second floor! No doors sliding open. No nothing. Not even flickering lights – the elevator just stopped.

Ah, that awkward moment when you realize you are stuck in an elevator.

(Aside: Ok, SRSLY elevator? If you’re gonna trap me, at least make the lights flicker!)

Um, ok, I’m stuck in an elevator, I thought to myself, trying to keep calm. All right, none of the buttons are working…and mashing them over and over again doesn’t seem to change that. I looked for a handy red “EMERGENCY PULL” button. You know, something like this:

"Push to talk." Brilliant.

Did my elevator have one?

Nope.

Did my elevator have any red buttons at all?

Nope.

The closest thing my elevator had was a small yellow button that said “bell.”

(Aside: Um, yellow? Like my emergency doesn’t merit the color red?)

(Further aside: Um, “bell”?! How ‘bout “alarm” – anything that implies a bit more alacrity!)

Breathing heavily (read: angrily), I pressed the bell button. Let’s just say it didn’t have quite the “this is an emergency” tone I was looking for. It sounded like the bells in my high school that were used to signal the end of a class period.

I held that button down for at least several minutes. Did anyone come to my aid? Nope. They must have been too busy getting to third period calculus.

Okay, okay, I thought, pacing the small space (thank God I’m not claustrophobic).  What’s the Morse for SOS…is it long-short-long repeated three times, or short-long-short repeated three times? Dang it, where are all the Military Fellows when you need them!!

I tried both my Morse theories. They didn’t summon anyone.

I was ready to cry at this point, and probably not the most rational creature. Great, I’m gonna have to sleep here ALL NIGHT. Ugh, the floor is so gross! Why won’t this bloody box let me OUT!!

Then I grew calmer. Well, I’ll just pull an Arnold and pry the doors open. They do it on Star Trek all the time.

 I wedged my fingers into the door and heaved.

Fortunately, they sprang open as soon as I got them the first few inches apart. Turns out, the elevator had made it to the second floor and then just had a brain shut-down. Or something. I took the stairs back to the lobby.

The guard, and my friends, turned towards me. Thoroughly disgruntled, I explained what just happened. “Oh,” my friends said, “was that you making the bell sound?”

Yes, you idiots. Didn’t you hear the SOS? Does a bell going off in patterns at 7:30 at night sound AT ALL normal to you?

I still needed my bag, so the guard took me back to the elevator and re-swiped his card. Wait, I have to go back in there? I panicked. Then I mentally slapped myself and reminded myself I’m an adult.

This time the elevators operated without a hitch. I retrieved my bag and re-joined my friends.

As I lay in bed falling asleep that night, I remember thinking, Huh, I should turn this experience into a blog post. It could be a really cool metaphor for feeling stuck in life and not knowing how or where to move next…all the doors seem shut…you can either pry them open, or…or…

Or you can accept that some doors will remain shut.

I was recently turned down for an internship (a paid one! Huzzah!) that I really wanted.  Obviously, I’m disappointed – the experience would have really advanced my career and given me incredible opportunities.  But when God closes one door, he opens a window. Or, he opens another door. Or, he traps you in an elevator to teach you the value of sometimes clawing at closed doors until they open.

Does this mean I’m going to claw at that internship until I get it? Naw, probably not. Will I continue to claw at the job market until I find something? You betcha.

Because sleeping on the dirty floor of an elevator – aka, interning forever/remaining static/giving up and waitressing full-time – is simply not an option. And I know that someday, that door WILL spring open for me.  (Even if it takes a scary ride and an SOS to get there.)

For now, I’ve decided to remain at my current internship. For a variety of reasons, all carefully and prayerfully considered, I believe its benefits outweigh its cons.  And I believe it offers the most opportunity for an eventual job.

So where does that put me within my elevator analogy?

Psh, heck if I know. Sometimes an elevator is just an elevator.

A Woman Armed with a Plan is a Dangerous Thing

So, *cough cough * , I guess you all may have noticed that I haven’t lived up to my promise of the last post. Sorry. But are you really surprised? It’s summer, I’m at home in the best place in the world with the best people in the world (only lacking a few best friends), and I’m on vacation dangit.

The other reason I haven’t posted is, well…I haven’t really had anything noteworthy to say.  I sent out a bunch of applications for jobs and internships and hadn’t heard anything from anyone.  Not even a simple line saying You’re unqualified, please desist in contacting us.  The world would be a better place if people believed more firmly in open lines of communication (and that can be applied to a variety of situations).  If an employer doesn’t want me, that’s fine, but at least inform me that you don’t want me.  It doesn’t have to be a long, detailed We regret to inform you…but we would welcome your application at another time.  I appreciate the politeness, and the false statement at the end, but I would really appreciate the truth.  We reject you, please move on. 

I digress.  My point is, it’s not really interesting to read, “Well, I’m still waiting,” over and over again.  (It’s even less interesting to live it.  Boredom ensued. Compounded by rain preventing me from escaping into outdoor pursuits.) But you don’t want to hear me complain, right? Bless you for reading thus far.

The real point: after so many weeks of not having a plan, and being jealous of those others with plans, guess what? I HAVE A PLAN.  A company in DC called me, and they want me to intern with them for the summer.  When the HR Manager called me to officially ask if I would accept, I was articulate, professional, and prepared.

HR Manager: "Would you like the position?"
Me: “Yeah….?”
HR Manager: “I’ll take that to mean…you want the job?”
Me: [something clunking into place in my brain] “Yeah! I mean, yes! Ahem, I would be pleased to accept the position.”

So. I have a plan. I’m gonna get my cute Montana self out to DC and live like a city girl for a while. (But I’m still a country girl, always remember that.) And I’m gonna act like I know what I’m doing.

‘Cause I do. Know what I’m doing, that is. Ahem. Totally.

If something like this happens, at least it will make for interesting reading.

End of the Long-Term Plan

As grads, we face the end of the end of the long-term plan.

Before in life we always had a long-term plan, something farther down the road to look forward to. In middle school we looked forward to high school, in high school we looked forward to college.  College was always the ultimate goal: it was the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the student rainbow.

Problem: it was the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the student rainbow.  What happens after that? What’s beyond the pot of gold, other than the rough dirt of hard ground?

This is one reason why so many students freak out at the end of their college careers. We face the end of the long-term plan.  Our lives no longer have a built-in structure, a firm schedule with recognizable expectations.

As students, we knew the schooling system: 2 semesters, with a Christmas and summer vacation. This was a constant, beginning as early as kindergarten.  As we grew older a few things changed – we began having different teachers for different subjects, or if we were really cool we actually went to different classrooms for different subjects.  The cocky among us began throwing around the word “homeroom,” a definite sign of maturity.  

When college hit, we adapted to the changes: doing our own laundry (but only some of us…I know who you are, you students who still made Mom do it), picking and carrying out our own major, only going to class a couple times a week (or not at all, depending on the class and depending on the person…I’m definitely not thinking about you partiers here), or for the really brave, cooking (aka learning to burn things in 301 different ways).

Despite the changes and new realities of life, we college kids still lived around the basic structure.  Semester, Christmas break, semester, summer break. Repeat. Throw in a May term.

After graduation though, the structure breaks down. There is no structure.  Grads face a vague and uncertain future.  Some of you, I know, are thinking, Hey, quit trying to freak me out.  I have a job lined up already.  If that’s the case, my heartfelt congratulations. I hold almost no bitterness toward you.  But my point is still valid for you, and it’s still valid for those of you going on for more schooling, or for those who plan to volunteer.

My point is, what will you be doing in five years?  Or even just two?  Or one?  My point is, life is no longer about the long-term plan.  It’s about the short-term plans. Plural. 

At this stage of life, it’s unlikely that any position I have will offer viable longevity.  I’ll enroll in a journalism-training program in Costa Rica for three months, and then I’ll...   I’ll get a summer job in Montana somewhere, and then I’ll…  I’ll do AmeriCorps/Peace Corps/[insert volunteer program here] for [insert time period here] and then I’ll…[insert plan here].  

Someone affiliated with the DC Hope Alumni network recently told me that she had a list of all the businesses Hope Alum worked for, but that it was three years old and likely very out of date; job turnover is so high that they likely no longer work at the same businesses.

I don’t mind change. Actually that’s a lie; I hate change.  But I can handle it. I’m okay admitting that change will be a constant in my life.  (Huh, what a paradox…change as a constant.)  Actually, if I’m with a really optimistic person and a solid stein of beer, then so much change actually sounds kind-of exciting.  I could go anywhere. I could do anything. I am limitless! (But only as long as I don’t look at my bank account.)

After all these musings, I guess I do have a a decent short-term AND long-term plan.

Short-term plan: Get a series of jobs. Hope I enjoy them. Have them lead to THE JOB. 
Long-term plan: have THE JOB, a job for which I’m trained. Love it.