Home stretch

Really hard to believe, but it's almost time to leave. Everyone keeps asking if the time has flown by, if I'm excited to go home, if I've had a good time. And I generally give some non-committal answer because I don't want to sound too enthusiastic and give the wrong impression. The summer hasn't really flown by, but as always, looking back, it doesn't seem like I was here that long. I'm definitely excited to go home. I miss the Midwest, and I'm anxious to see everyone. And I have had a good time. I know sometimes it doesn't sound like it, but being out here has been a really great experience. A learning experience, if you will, heavy on the introspection and self-reliance - which is important for me at this point. Time to close the California chapter of my life and start another new one - The Real World.
I'm so very excited for Eileen to come out. It'll be nice to feel like San Diego is my town and show a visitor around like I know what I'm talking about. Which I only sort of do. I wish I could stop being such a planner and worrier and just chill out and let this trip fall into place by itself, but that's sooo against my nature. But I'm trying. No matter what, it should be fabulous.

A slow climb

It's been a tough couple days. I try to put on a brave face and work my way through it all, but the fact is, I'm ready to come home. I'm tired of being here. I'm tired of everything being difficult because I'm so far away. Despite the fact that I've heard that Fergie song 12,000 times this summer, I'm no less of a crybaby than I always have been.

Sometimes I just want to curl up in my bed and stay there all day, cozy and relaxed and in my own little world instead of the outside one that I don't want to deal with. But I'm proud to say that I haven't succombed to that. Yesterday, when I was feeling pretty low, what did I decide to do? I climbed up a mountain. We're not talking Everest or anything, but it was good-sized, and the path up (and down) was not easy. It was the middle of the afternoon, hot and bright. There are no trees to speak of in that general region; the main type of vegetation is short, spindly bushes that whistle when the wind blows through them. And the path was dirt, punctuated by rocks, some of them quite large. But the view at the top (and most of the way up) was amazing. Neighboring mountains, egregious SoCal sprawl, Lake Murray, winding freeways - it was worth it. By the time I was done, I was covered in a thin film of dirt, legs definitely sore, but I had such a sense of accomplishment. I did it. I did it myself. I thought, "Hey, I'm going to go climb a mountain," and I went and did it, just like that. I know it might not seem like a huge deal to anyone else; for the record, there were plenty of people significantly older than me who made the same climb I did. And while the physical act of climbing was strenuous, it wasn't the most rewarding part. It was my ability to brush past the day's stresses and hurts and accomplish something on my own. Again, perhaps not something that would win me any medals or even earn me any particular respect, but I did something for me, and that's what matters.

Crisis mode

In the past few weeks, I've been struggling with career crisis No. 2. I think the first one struck sometime during the school year, about the time The Post did the story about quarter-life crises. This bout of occupation anxiety is more intense than that one because I'm much closer to actually having to figure out what I want to do. This would be easy if I was ready to be a traditional journalist - I'd apply for any open jobs that sounded remotely close to what I wanted to do, and then I'd take one, even if it was in some backcountry town at a paper with a circulation rivaling The Post's, and I'd be grateful for all the experience I'd be getting. However. Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn't all about newspapers like I thought I was. I think this was after my internship last summer, thus begging the question of why I took another newspaper internship this summer. And honestly, if I could answer that question, I would. I guess I kept hearing voices of mentors and employers of how great a DJ internship would look on my resume and what a great experience it would be. And it has been great. But how useful is a copy-editing internship (or two, for that matter) going to be to future employers if I decide to move outside journalism?
I'm trying not to have regrets - it's not like my future is set in stone here. I could go back to school for something else, do editing in a different venue, explore other communication-related opportunities (all options that I'm considering). But it's hard to be content to fly by the seat of your pants when, as it now stands, in a few short weeks you won't have health insurance anymore. Still, I'm trying not to freak out about all this. Things will fall into place sooner or later. Maybe I have to work a job I'm not crazy about or mooch off my parents longer than I wanted to. Because discovering what I truly want to do with my life is what's important to me, and if that means sacrifices or not really "using" the degree I got, then so be it. I can live with that.

On a less serious note, it's looking to be a good weekend. I actually have plans with people other than myself, and it should be fun. As much as I'm looking forward to coming home, I'm also aware that my time here is running out, and I'm doing my best to make the most of my California summer.
Speaking of, one of my coworkers asked me last night if I was going to save my license plates (I recently got the real California plates for my car). I said yes, not admitting that I'd already thought about what I wanted to do with them. He said he thought they'd be a good souvenir, and I agreed. I told him people back home think California is IT. So many people told me how lucky I was that I got to be out here, and while that's true, it's funny to think about. Because obviously Californians don't walk around every day thinking to themselves, "Man, I'm lucky to live here." Some days I do. But then again, I'm not a real Californian.