what you (don't) wish for

Even the most grounded and least materialistic person can get a little crazy after registering for their wedding. And I'm not that person--I'm a little shallow, I like stuff maybe a little too much. So you can understand that after playing with the websites and the fancy gun-thingy at Pottery Barn and Kitchens, Etc. and planning imaginary kitchens and living rooms and bathrooms and picking out towels and shower curtains and knives, I had a pretty concrete list of things that I wanted. And once I'd picked them, once I'd placed them in my future linen closet or pantry or bathroom, I HAD TO HAVE THEM. When you get that registry gun in your hand, things change real damn quick from "Oh, that's cute" to "If I do not own that, I will die. Just die."

When you register for a wedding in the dot.com world, the great controversy is To Look or Not to Look. In the months before my wedding, I had boards and comps to study for, a job, class, volunteering, and job searching. So of course I looked--how else would I put off all of the responsibility, the stress? I spent hours watching my registry, wondering who'd shelled out for the ridiculously expensive duvet cover and what I would do if nobody bought me the griddle pan ("how will I make hamburgers?"). One of these hours, I noticed a few things under the "purchased" category that were not on my "requested" list. Concerned, I scrolled down for further examination and I found that two stainless steel utensil canisters had been purchased for me.

Utensil canisters? What the eff? I didn't ask for utensil canisters. I wanted towels. And a pizza cutter. And vases! Stainless steel? Are you kidding me? Furious at whomever would have the GALL to assume that they could go off of my registry, I speed-dialed my sister and unleashed a vent that in absolutely no way took into account someone's generosity in purchasing me a gift in the first place, that entirely ignored that it is, in fact, the thought that counts.

She laughed at me. This may have had something to do with the fact that it was, in fact, she who had purchased the canisters, as I found out to my complete chagrin and humiliation at my bridal shower a few weeks later. But the canisters went into my kitchen in my first apartment, and they're in my kitchen now, and they're both filled with spatulas and wooden spoons and whisks and the pizza cutter that I finally did get. I couldn't live without those canisters--they keep my tools compact and clean and close at hand and they go fabulously with my stainless-steel appliances. Many of my wedding gifts--requested or not--have long since gone into storage, victims of the space-race constantly taking place in my miniature metro home. But those canisters will be on any counter I have for the foreseeable future, because (as my sister, in her older and wiser way, knew) a girl can live without a griddle pan, but every kitchen needs a place to put the spatulas.

The moral here is that sometimes it's the things you don't ask for that end up meaning the most. Whether it's the thoughtful gift or the unforeseen life event, it's often when life veers off of our carefully planned route that the scenery is most rewarding.

I didn't ask for career dissatisfaction. I went to graduate school, I worked hard, I took the perfect job for my skills and talents and interests. I saw myself, just a few years hence, heading up the advising division of a major university or leading the student services department of a community college. And I would excel at either of those things--I'm that good at my job. It came as a shock to me, this realization that I no longer enjoy nor even, really, care that much about education. Don't get me wrong, the core issues are still important to me; I care about access and equality and the sociology of education. It's just that now I'd prefer to read the headlines on cnn.com instead of devour the textbooks and engage in lengthy discourse. It's faded from a passion to a passing interest. To answer the arguments I've already heard, it's not just these particular students or this particular school or this particular job. I'm a counselor, I'm trained in analysis and exploration and the one thing I gained from my degree was a high level of self-awareness and I know in my heart after well over a year of careful consideration that this promising career path is no longer mine.

If you've not yet experienced your existential crisis, let me tell you, it's not a lot of fun. It's terrifying, pushing 30 (am I too young to be pushing 30? I feel like you can say that when you're less than 3 years away) and having no idea what you want to be when you grow up. It's frustrating, having so many skills and yet none that are in demand for anything other than what you do. It's annoying, having a career crisis in the middle of a frickin' recession. And it's exhausting, trudging to work every day and doing your very best--because that's all I know how to do--even when you hate it, when it makes you gnash your teeth and blink away tears all at the same time. No, I didn't ask for this.

But I'm so very glad it's happening. Not on the micro level, because it sucks and I hate it and I whine all the time and I cry and maybe annoy everyone around me especially Rachel who bears the brunt of my angst. But in the grand scheme of things, on the whole, this is good for me. I've had to look at myself, hard, the kind of self-examination that makes you squirm a little like when the doctor asks you how much you drink. There's nothing like a job crisis to make you examine your goals, your priorities, your deep down hopes and fears. You learn a lot about yourself when you're trying to convince someone else you're good enough for their job. And job interviews all over this crazy little city have taught this country girl that she might get honked at or get lost or arrive forty minutes early, but she'll get there and even she can drive in DC (with the help of the Verizon Navigator system, that is). Even better, I've had to find ways to enjoy myself, define myself, outside of work: volunteering, socializing, travelling, learning to knit. My life is fuller and richer now than it would be if I was only my job and the best thing of all is that I've learned to appreciate just how much I have going for me.

Rachel told me the other day that, outside of the job thing, my life is just about perfect and I have to agree. Though I wish my sister and her wisdom and canister-buying weren't so far away, my family is close and supportive (even if not always within two hours' drive). My marriage is happy, my animals are healthy, I've got a cute little house in a cute little city and I live next door to the gym. Most importantly, my hair is looking absolutely adorable lately.

So, to whomever or whatever has chosen this time and this place for my identity crisis, right now I'm cursing you. Right now I'm angry and sad and frustrated and so, so tired of the whole damn thing. But someday, when I'm back on track, I'll appreciate the journey just that much more for having overcome these obstacles. This crisis, the lessons I've learned, they will be my stainless-steel canisters: way more useful than I ever imagined, and always just in arm's reach in case I need them.

And you thought I wouldn't end on a cliche.