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.

Hanging in Suspense

You may have noticed another long hiatus in my writing. This is becoming a habit, so I guess I’ll quit apologizing or making excuses. Seriously, though, I’ve been too busy to write! <<<  Excuse.

The end of the fall marks a serious transition point for us interns. Our commitments slowly come to an end, and we face once again an uncertain future and a viciously competitive job market. (And the scary realization that despite the 3 months we’ve put into our internships, we still don’t have sufficient “experience” to satisfy potential employers. Really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?)

My point is, I’ve spent the last several weeks floundering over what to do with my life. Okay, to be honest, I’ve spent the last 12 months floundering over what to do with my life – but transition times condense all that stress into one long, terrible, grey-hair-producing, frozen-pizza-and-beer-eating, somewhat-hysterical-phone-calls-home experience.  You should try it sometime. I’m sure it’s good for the heart.

My head swirled with questions, and each day saw me resolved upon a new path.

I will be a JOURNALIST! Excuse me now, I’m gonna go cover the war in Afghanistan, brb….hmmm, no, I will actually study those TOP SECRET intel reports, because I’m a policy analyst and that’s what we do…scratch that, I’m pretty much a spy, and I’m gonna private.dance it.outta here…fine, screw the job market, I’m joining the military! 

All this uncertainty really made me a productive member of society.

I had a choice. Move on to another internship (possibly on the Hill? Possibly in a different field? Possibly with a different company?) or stay where I’m at. My company offered me a continued internship into the spring, and my boss offered to help me out a bit with the job search.

What to do…what to do…

(I eventually did make a decision, but if you think I’m gonna tell you right now then you clearly don’t understand the phrase “hanging in suspense”…nor have you read any trilogies.)

(Not that this is a trilogy…given my posting regularity, do we honestly think I’m capable of that?)

(The answer is no. I’m not.)

On Success

Thanks to pophangover.com

Apparently DC doesn't "DO" winter

I have a problem.

I’m a country girl. I love my quiet town and my mountains and my long, cold winters.  I love bundling up in big, poofy layers and throwing myself down upon the snow in the pasture to just stare up at the frosty stars. I love weather that is so cold you have to wear a scarf beneath your ski goggles or your face will fall off.

Me and the Madre, properly outfitted for a REAL winter.

Back in Montana, winter crawls in to stay somewhere around Nov. 1. For example, it was 30 degrees back home today. And that was the high. Yes, our falls are both spectacular and spectacularly short. This has conditioned me to be ready and eager for winter at an early date.

Unavoidable fact: I live in the city.  No frosty stars or heaps of snow here (excluding Snowpocalypse 2010). And, hmm, it's kind-of still really warm.

Actually, today – the middle of freaking November, might I point out – the temperature reached a high of 70 degrees. 

What is this, Florida?

I realize that most of my friends are ecstatic with this weather, but I’m still in shock. It reminds me of the time I spent studying abroad in Jordan – no snow.  No real cold. (May I remind you, DC, Jordan is a DESERT. I should not be making this comparison right now.) No blatant commercialism to tempt your credit cards as the holidays approached.  I lived in a mostly Muslim country, meaning the run-up to Christmas didn’t exist, because the majority of the country didn’t celebrate Christmas.  Returning to the States on the 19^th was like getting physically assaulted by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Why this analogy matters:

DON’T YOU PEOPLE CELEBRATE WINTER???!?!?

Seriously, I’ve been wearing my jean jacket to work lately. My unlined, thinly-layered, should-not-be-a-winter-coat jean jacket.  Sometimes, I don’t even zip it. I took my scarf off yesterday because it was too hot. Not cool! Literally!

Last week the DC weather gods sent me a teaser – we received a schizophrenic snow/slush/rain mix that was sufficiently white and sticky. Sufficiently white and sticky, that is, to send Aftan skipping up and down the street clapping her hands and crowing about how much she loves winter. It wasn’t obnoxious at all.

But since that promising start, nada. No snow. No frost. No clouds. Again I ask, only with way more incredulity, what is this, Florida?! 

When I fly back to Montana for the holidays, I don’t want to feel like I’ve been physically assaulted by Frosty the Snowman. Work with me here, DC. Send me some real snowflakes. Holla atcha homegirl.  [I was going to spell that “gurl”, but then I just…couldn’t.]

The Quarter-Life Crisis

~ Prologue ~

       Mid-life crisis: A period of personal emotional turmoil and coping challenges that some people encounter when they reach middle age, accompanied by a desire for change in their lives, brought on by fears and anxieties about growing older.
       The phrase mid-life crisis was introduced in 1965 by the psychoanalyst and social scientist Elliot Jaques in a study of creative geniuses. (Wikipedia)

Along with the above definition, Wikipedia was kind enough to include a photographic example:

Actual caption: some people will purchase both a motorcycle
and an expensive car during their mid life crisis.

~ End Prologue ~

Since I am looking to potentially move to the DC area, I figured it would be a good idea to go there and check the city out.  I had been there twice in high school, but that was 5 years ago – I needed to see how I currently felt about the area and if I could see myself living there.  (And I wanted to try and line up a job.  Yeah, I needed one of those.)

So a friend and I made plans to visit the city during our Spring Break.  We did the typical touristy things (museums, monuments, memorials) and congratulated ourselves on being “so not like typical tourists.”  Having both studied abroad, we were each familiar with the typical touristy tropes: fanny-packs, excessive pointing, visible cameras, lingering as if lost.

We did none of these things.  (When we ended up somewhere we hadn’t exactly planned on going to, that was not us getting lost. That was us purposefully exploring the city.) We found offbeat, out-of-the-way restaurants and enjoyed lots of walking.  We meandered at will, and it was lovely.

Throughout all of this, I felt myself thinking, Gee, this city doesn’t feel overwhelming at all.  Actually, it feels kinda small…I could definitely handle it.

For about a day I floated on a happy zephyr of sparkles and dreams, imagining myself a working girl in DC.

Then I spoke with another friend.

It started innocently enough; I asked him what he wanted to do after graduation.  He mentioned a few vague ideas, but was insistent that he wanted to go West, experience smaller-town living and be among the great outdoors.

I paused.  Right there, standing next to one of the clear fountains of the WWII Memorial, I had my quarter-life crisis.

 Quarter-Life Crisis: A period of emotional and sometimes financial turmoil experienced by people as they reach their early to mid-twenties, brought on by looming and completely justified fears related to careers, re-location, and the knowledge that they are now "an adult."
     The phrase "quarter-life crisis" was introduced by the soon-to-be-grad and procrastination expert Aftan in a random identity crisis. [Although apparently some other guy wrote a book about it before I published this....darn]

Actual caption: Some students will try to hide
under the covers during their quarter-life crisis.
"What? I'm...I'm not doing anything!"

Wait a second, some part of me wondered, dazedly following my companions around the National Mall.  Aftan, you’re from Montana. Hiking, nature, the outdoors – that’s a huge part of your identity. How can you even think about living in a city?

Another part of me reasoned, Look, you simply cannot live in a small Western town and do the kind of work you want to do.  Rural Montana – surprise! – doesn’t exactly have tons of connections to international diplomacy or journalism.

Silently I argued with myself, all the way up a bunch of clean white steps.  Finally I looked up and realized I was standing before the giant statue of Lincoln. I stared at his wise, gentle and troubled face and mentally begged him to give me answers, or at least solace.

Funny thing about statues: they never really talk back.

I was pretty quiet the rest of the day, wrestling with myself and with God and with my own ideas about dreams and home and what I truly want out of life. In many ways I’m still wrestling. God and I, we’ve come to a few conclusions, I think. Maybe. At the very least I’m not still in that paralyzed, scared place of a few weeks ago.

If you’re in that place, trust me, I know – it sucks.  But you won’t be there forever. I promise.

And sometimes, hiding under the covers (for a little while) really does help.

The Question

I’ve discovered -- through four years of dedicated undergraduate work -- that answering the same question over and over again is actually not so fun.

In my first year of college all the freshmen engaged in this.  We were desperate to make friends.  I developed a set of standard answers and grew accustomed to the standard responses:  “Wow, you have a really unusual name.  No, I mean it’s really pretty!” [Thanks….?]  “You’re from Montana?  Wow, that is so cool.” [I know.] “How did you end up in Michigan?”  “You’re a twin? Wow, that’s awesome…does she go here?”

When I studied abroad it was the same phenomenon.  Now, as a senior back at my home institution, once again I cannot escape it.  Only this time, the phenomenon limits itself to just one question.  Sometimes it comes in sneaky disguises, but it always strips down to the same thing.

What are you doing after college?

This question tends to inspire involuntary physical responses among students, ranging from the subtle and entirely concealable eye twitch to the completely unexplainable full-body muscle spasm. 

After recovering from this physiological distress, students have a variety of ways to answer the question.

ONE: You can tell the truth, over and over and over again, but let’s face it, that gets old fast.

Yeah, you know, I really want a job that combines writing with international affairs. Possibly something in journalism – I’m going to move to Washington DC and pursue careers in that field. I’ve always loved DC, but naturally I’m not closed off to other options.  I know someone who works at CNN in Atlanta…

 

TWO: Admit the real truth: I have no plan.

Yeah, ummmmm……..

You will take in the questioner’s understanding gaze, feel the soft and slightly patronizing pat on your shoulder [I have a real job, you ninny] and the inevitable, “That’s ok. You don’t need to know. You’ll figure something out, and it will be something you love.”

You’ll nod gravely, yet wisely. Out loud you’ll say, “I know. God and I have it worked out. I’m not worried.” Mentally, you’ll say (somewhat hysterically), “YES I need to know! Because what if I don’t figure something out, and if I do it definitely won’t be something I love – how can flipping burgers at McDonald’s be something I love? Who loves that?!”

Instead of engaging in this agonizing mental/verbal repartee, you could always resort to the third option:

 

THREE: Make up a cool story.

Yeah, actually I’ve accepted a position working with homeless cats. We’re going to slowly rehabilitate them to live in homes, through a combination of TLC, R&R, and overpriced vet bills.  It’s really rewarding work, I just know I’m making a difference in someone’s life!

Ok, maybe you make up a not-so-cool story.

The potential risk with this method is that your listener will chuckle good-naturedly – “Good one!” – and then ask, “No, really, what are you doing after college?” 

And that leaves you right back where you started.  Only slightly more frustrated.