Tag Archives: what do I want to do with my life

The Gypsy Gene

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I have a fantasy. More than likely, it’s not in the way you are thinking. Oh no, probably not.

I want to be a gypsy. A what? A gypsy? Yes, you read that correctly. A traveler. A nomad. A wanderer. A carnie. A person who doesn’t settle in one place for the rest of their lives. Are you serious? Obviously. What the hell is a gypsy, anyway? Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame? No! Not her. Well, sort of like her. Physically, I don’t look like her. I don’t have the dark complexion. I normally don’t go around carrying a tambourine without shoes on. I don’t tell fortunes. Nor do I have a pet goat. (But I sure would be willing to adopt one.) But mentally, we are similar. So while seven-year-old Jamie would have chosen to be the Sleeping Beauty princess (or any of the blonde ones), the almost twenty-three (holy shit! I’m getting old) year-old Jamie wants to be Esmeralda.

I have mentioned sporadically throughout different posts about the “gypsy gene.” But what is it exactly?

The name should say it all: Someone who travels with a group of people and lives off by whatever work comes their way.

This mindset appeals to me for a myriad of reasons. I need to see the world. I don’t like the idea of settling in one place forever. Traveling is good for a person*. I need to see the world. Oh, did I already say that?

Where did I get this so-called gene? Where I get everything else, of course: my mother.

We are all cursed with certain traits that our parents have inevitably passed down to us. When I am habitually five minutes late for everything, I blame it on my mom. While all the kids were getting picked up on time from school and/or camp, I was usually the last one, crying, wondering why my mom forgot about me. When the opposite sex learns that I have never made homemade mashed potatoes, I blame it on my mom. When I have a break out on my face, I can blame it on the oily skin gene.

However, I can’t say I have been cursed with all bad traits. I have an open mind. I am independent. (Even my senior class in high school knew that.) I have a good sense of humor. (I think.) And of course, the most important one: the gypsy gene.

My mother is an immigrant from Germany. She grew up in the northeast, mainly Massachusetts. Left home as soon as she could to head out west to San Francisco. (Gee, wherever did I get the idea?!) Eventually headed to the Tampa Bay area where she has been since. She, too, needs to explore. Her means of touring the world: by boat.

But what is it like to have such a gene? A gene that makes us want to venture out into the world? It’s both a blessing and a curse.

I have been in Portland for over a month, and am already thinking where I want to go next. I’m not ready to settle. I just want to somehow pick a spot on the map, stay there for six months, and move on to the next. It almost saddens me when I think that there are places in the world that I will never get to see because a) I’m not wealthy and b) I’ll probably never have the time.

The good thing is that I have already done the hard part: move to a city across the country, alone. Mentally, I know that if I really wanted to be in England (or wherever) by next year, I could do it. The want outweighs the fear enormously. Monetarily, it could be a different story.

This is what it’s like.

But then again, it’s my fantasy. I’m a hopeless romantic, and I am simply in love with the idea of being a traveler. Realistically, I have two cats, and they’re more like kids than one would think. I would probably be miserable doing whatever work I could find. I know that I am too much of a dreamer, and I’m just romanticizing the idea of never settling down.

Besides, I’m just getting used to Portland.

* “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”

Am I ready to grow up?

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I once had confidence.

I am 22. I am a college graduate with a degree in journalism. This sounds perfectly fine, yes? Wrong. I have graduated with a degree in a field I have absolutely no passion for. Although I enjoy writing, I am not a reporter. I don’t get the journalist high when “getting the story.” I came to realize this during my last semester of college.

Oh, shit.

I thought I had it all planned out. I was going to graduate, move to New York City where I would pay over a thousand dollars to live in a closet, all the while working for a large, corporate Cosmopolitan magazine (Feminist Jamie shakes her head at the thought). I was going to write about everything I write about in this blog, but I would be getting paid.

Oh, shit. My life is hardly that. Four-year-old Jamie would be terribly disappointed.

“What do you mean you still live at home?! You don’t have a boyfriend, either?! But you’re supposed to be doing big girl things, like be a country singer or be a veterinarian.”
“Ah.. well.. err…”

Life is funny like that, four-year-old Jamie and I am now just learning it. Life doesn’t like to go according to plan, especially when you have had your whole life mapped out by the time you were fourteen.

I never understood why people went back to school after they just graduated. They had a degree! Go flaunt it! Go hang it on a wall! Go get that career!

I was silently judging them. (Outwardly, my facial expression revealed all.) I was envious they were already done with school, but at the same time, confused to why they were going back. Why weren’t they like me? I couldn’t wait to start my career. I couldn’t wait to prove to people (an employer) I really was a good writer. (Hire me!) I couldn’t wait to move out of Florida into my efficiency (that’s a nice word for “it’s miniscule and you will be lucky if you can fit two whole people in it”) New York City apartment.

Yet, I am one of them. The post-college graduate not quite ready to be an adult, and is contemplating on going back to school. (After all, it’s where I am used to being at.) I have entertained jobs that don’t require a degree: a flight attendant. (Okay, so I really just liked the idea of traveling to foreign countries for free.) I thought (and am still thinking) about somehow becoming a digital nomad. I have even considered joining a gypsy community. No, really.

I am not where I thought I would be at 22: working at a local newspaper at the bottom of the totem pole doing mindless work, and being completely miserable.

As of lately, I am questioning my existence. What is my purpose of being here? What is the purpose of life? To wake up, go to the dead-end job where we earn barely enough money to pay our bills, just to survive? This is life? This is what I couldn’t wait to start? Am I really ready for this? To grow up and be a big girl?

Oh, shit. Ready or not.

When I first met my current job nine months ago, I was instantly smitten. I was finally the go-getter and knocking politely at the door which would lead me to the field I wanted to pursue: journalism. (Or so I thought.) After all, it was an office job, and when your resume consists namely of retail and restaurants, this is hitting it big. I could finally wear those adorable pencil skirts and high heels. I could finally stop ranting about how much I hate working with the public. This was it.

It didn’t take long to fall in love. Nor did it take long to fall out of love.

I have reached the point in the relationship with my job where I no longer care. I am miserable, and am only here because I need money to survive. And because I am saving to leave Florida. (I hate you, capitalism.) (I hate you, American Dream Nightmare.)

I am learning that jobs are very much like relationships. They can be rewarding offering such a high that one doesn’t want to come down. But on the contrary, they can be entirely exhausting. They can be short-term. (Keeping one’s options open.) Or, they can be long-term. (Tying the knot.) Each member in the relationship must work hard in order to remain happy with one another. And if someone isn’t happy, a breakup occurs.

It’s not as if my current job is difficult. It’s quite simple actually. Perhaps that’s the problem: it’s not fulfilling. It’s boring. It’s not rewarding whatsoever. I am not intellectually stimulated. In other words, I am dating the guy who is just there to pass time, even though I deserve someone really spectacular. (I have a college degree! I deserve my own office! So I can hang it on the wall!) I am more than just a copy aficionado. I am more than just the girl who transfers calls to the correct department. I am more than just a coffee fetcher for the higher-ups.

But I am 22.

I feel that I am still young! I couldn’t fathom the idea of marriage or having children right now. How can I fathom the idea of settling into a career then? Isn’t this just as serious as making any other commitment? One must be sure! Are my expectations just as high as finding Mr. Almost Right when it comes to landing the career? Maybe.

I suppose it’s the same theory when it comes to finding the aforementioned Mr. Almost Right: you have to work a lot of shitty jobs until you find the right one for you. The secret? (I think) Figuring out what you love doing (for free), and then finding someone who is willing to pay you.

That’s the hard part.

The Office

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via Getty Images

Most of my resume experience has consisted of customer service jobs, which includes either the hospitality business or retail. Dealing with the public everyday is stressful, irksome, and tiresome. However, it’s the type of job everyone needs to do at least once in their life. That way, dealing with the public wouldn’t be so stressful, irksome, and tiresome.

When the chance arose to work for the local newspaper, I jumped right on it. Not only is it opening the door to the career path of my choice–publishing–but because I wouldn’t have to necessarily feign happiness to hungry, irate patrons.

This is my first office job.

I was excited to finally expand my wardrobe to the cute office wear that’s sold in stores. When else would I wear the cute dress with the heels? Like with most pros, there comes a downside. I justify all shopping purchases with, “But I need it for work.” I don’t.

I’ve officially been here for sevenish months and this is what I’ve learned thus far:

  • I say “hi” to everyone I see in the building; regardless if I know his or her name. It’s very similar to when people are on boats and they wave to one another.

You’re on a boat, too?!”

Wave.

“You’re stuck in this office for eight plus hours, too!”

Wave.

  • Everyone loves food. I mean, LOVES food in this building. My mom says there will never be peace in the middle east, as it has been going on for centuries. However, I’m pretty certain if the assistant from editorial baked her homemade red velvet cupcakes, and shipped them to Al-Qaeda, there would finally be some peace in the middle east. That, or just be smart and leave. Food brings everyone together, despite one’s differences.
  • I still have to deal with the public when he or she feels their tip should be an above-the-fold story. Fortunately, it’s not face-to-face. My eyes rolling can’t be heard through the phone.
  • I find myself leaving work wondering what I even did to pass the time. When I leave my restaurant job, I know what I did. It involves dealing with the public, and me ready to go home to drink. At the office, I find myself spending hours browsing the internet that have nothing to do with work. This, however, does not mean I am not a hard worker. It means that I am not used to this much downtime, where you must FIND the work to do. Whether that involves cleaning the desk, organizing the morgue (similar to where the dead are stored, but think newspapers instead) or making labels for the phone.

via Blackberry

 

I realize I am paying my dues working these menial jobs. I do. I try not to take my two jobs for granted. There are plenty of people who would be thankful for having one job. One job that would earn  barely over minimum wage to support themselves. I get it. I am completely happy with my employers.

However, I’ve just been working the humdrum jobs since I was fourteen. I’m a college graduate, who is ready for the career. Whatever that may be.  One day I am so sure I want to do design. Then I want to write. Then I want to go to grad school. Then I want to travel the world. Then I want to be a reality television star. Then I want to be a high school teacher. Then I want to teach English in a foreign country.

Whatever it is, I do know that I don’t want to be the copy machine aficionado for the rest of my life.