Dear Diary,

Every time I peruse the seductive aisles of Barnes & Noble, I am particularly tempted by the journal wall. They are quite attractive, albeit overpriced, with each releasing a different aura and purpose. Journals for travelers, for writers, for Jesus-lovers, for angry teenagers, for grandmas, for hipsters—you get the point. My personal favorites are the very old looking ones. I have made quite a few impulse purchases of these leather bound, hand- crafted, $30 and up blank books in an effort to feel inspired, appear like a real writer. I have always thought great writers must have diaries. Pages and pages of stories, memories, snapshots of their lives to reflect on, turn into best selling novellas, have placed on eBay by their greedy grandchildren after they are dead.

Unfortunately, I have never kept a diary; instead I house a library of very attractive, very neglected blank books. Journaling has always seemed like such a waste of time. I know what I did today, why do I have to write it down?

The closest I ever came to journaling was in second grade. I was given a small, hardbound diary with purple flowers and an orange cat on the cover. Inside I wrote stories about that cat and his many fantastic adventures. His name was Alex and twice he got hit by a car and survived because the angel Gabriel breathed life into his little cat mouth and saved him. He went to lots of tea parties with his beautiful best friend and hero, Katie (I am an oldest child).

In Middle School there was the occasional late night scribble about how terribly unhappy I was and about all the boys who didn’t like me, but they always ended up being burned or shredded and wrapped up in paper towels and buried at the bottom of the trashcan because of its top secret content. High School followed a similar course, though at that time I was actually busy and usually took out my teen angst by oversleeping.

Growing up a GeNET doesn’t help either; writing on an actual piece of paper is outdated, gives me hand cramps, and does not auto correct the word “definitely.”  It seems like a chore. I know this is all very tragic and sad, but it’s the truth. Last year I had the brilliant idea to buy a compact voice recorder to record my thoughts so that I wouldn’t have to scratch them down, but after about 30 seconds of awkwardly reviewing my day, I laughed and gave up

In truth, I think people who journal are probably the same people who scrapbook, and I fit into that crowd  like an Obama sticker on a Ford F-150. It’s just not me, and I should stop making it a New Year’s resolution. My greedy grandchildren will just have to make due with a pile of blank books and a few short stories about the adventures of Alex the Cat.

Side Effects

I have been getting headaches every mid afternoon for the past few weeks. At first I thought I was just dehydrated, as a result I drank so much water I thought I was getting a UTI with all those trips to the lav. Self medication followed; IBUProfen, Advil, Tylenol, Motrin, some oddly shaped green pills I found in the bottom of my purse that turned out to be stool softeners (an unpleasant surprise). Yet the headaches persisted.

After consulting the ever unreliable WebMD, I had myself convinced these headaches were a telltale sign that I was, indeed, with child. Oh the panic. Never have I been so happy for Mother Nature to visit–a long 48 hours later.

The next logical theory was to assume I was allergic to my job. Since graduating college and experiencing the 9-5 pace, I have repeatedly mentioned that desk jobs are bad for one’s mental health. It would make perfect sense for that to spill over to the physical well-being. Unfortunately, the only remedy for sitting at my job is not having a job, which is quite unrealistic considering that a) I’m an English major with loans and b) the job market is not exactly overflowing with opportunity.

Apparently higher education is the answer to this conundrum. Not only are employers now demanding Master’s Degrees, but post college students are becoming increasingly disappointed and bored with post college life, resorting to graduate school to further postpone sitting at a desk job. As my friend Galen puts it, “It’s what all the cool kids are doing.”

I admit the idea of grad school is very glamorous. I could quit my job, write, stay up late, and say impressive things like, “Why yes, my thesis on Hamlet’s internal conflict because he is in love with his mother is going quite well, thank you.”

Yesterday I received an acceptance letter to a decently celebrated graduate school in Pittsburgh to pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction. While it was all very exciting to read an admission letter boosting my ego, it was also fairly alarming to have an actual choice. Suddenly not having a mindless desk job was just as frightening as having one. I suppose this is what corporate America does to you. The risk of losing a steady paycheck and healthcare can be paralyzing. A real dream killer.

This year after Christmas, Austin and I will pack up our things (again) and migrate south to Harrisonburg so that he can finish up some prerequisites for medical school. This means my current job is coming to a definite end and the next move is wide open. I should be ecstatic; yet now that I have this big, fat opportunity for change, I am plagued with indecision and concern. What if I am in grad school and get a toothache? No dental insurance. What if I hate my classes and want to drop out? Massive waste of money. What if I actually do become…with child? Little Timmy lives in daycare and probably becomes a crack addict.

Perhaps all these little insignificant worries are accumulating into one massive headache leaking out like a tooth abscess every mid-afternoon to remind me that I am a bit lost. I’m not sure. What I do know deep down is that everything will be just fine. I have many options, some left unlisted, and support network that will smile and nod along with most any choice. It’s just a matter of choosing. Such is life.