Inbetweeners

Listen: Ready to Start - Arcade Fire

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a young lady in possession of academic qualifications, must be in want of employment when she has completed her academic career.

I mean, between news of revolutions and recessions and racism, the thought uppermost in my mind would be how to reduce the time spent at home.

"You came out at the wrong time," said my mum earlier, as I was gloomily telling her about any developments. Wrong timing or not, I suppose this feeling would be familiar to anyone caught between school/university and the actual working world - that feeling of being very, very green, and uncertain about what to expect, and whether what you have is what people want.

This Chinese New Year, the question mostly directed at me wasn't "When are you graduating?" More like, "Oh you've graduated - so do you have a job?"

I swear I'm going to skewer anyone who goes (with that bright, chirpy tone), "You're not 21 yet, don't worry, there's still time for you to find a job!"

No. God, no. Nobody cares about your age when you've graduated, all right? There's no excuse for being young right now, not when you've proven that you can do the work of people who are - supposedly - older than you in college. So, no.

I mean, seriously, being able to read a lot has no relevance to what I'm supposed to be doing. Does anyone care how many times I've read The Age of Innocence, like I'm doing now? No. Would my ability to read for hours at a stretch, and my liking for strange words, have any bearing on my prospects for employment? No. Would my knowledge of pop culture and the weirdest things on the Internet help me in the least? Hell no.

I am not, as Esther Greenwood was in The Bell Jar, aiming to be everything. I don't think I even want to consider too many options - especially unrealistic ones - because I don't like the feeling of being scattered and aimless. The problem with me, though, is that looking at point B from point A here isn't a straight line at all. It's loopy and it keeps curling in on itself, and on days like this when my head's on the blink, I'm demoralized enough to blog about it.

Ha, age. Don't talk to me about age.