Guess I Can Always Take the Stairs
For close to two years now, I have been trying to make peace with the fact that my life is seemingly stuck in that murky place called limbo.
Until I am finished with school, and until my dad is back on his feet, I am in professional no-woman's-land—unable to figure out the next phase of my peripatetic career.
This is hard enough for a planner like me—I like to know where I'm headed, how I'm going to get there, and what the weather will be like along the way. Not knowing these things upsets my equilibrium, weighs me down, and stresses me out.
But even when I can summon my inner Zen master and embrace the unknown and unknowable, it takes me only so far.
Because eventually I meet someone new, and that someone inevitably asks the dreaded question:
"So, what do you do?"
This, ladies and gentleman, is the opening for what is commonly called the "elevator speech"—the pithy, no-more-than-30-seconds-long summary of one's existence that, professional networkers will tell you, is the key to getting a job, a date, a great apartment, an audition, a record deal, a story assignment, a book contract, or whatever it is that you most want or need at any given moment in your life.
The idea is that you never know when you might find yourself face to face—at a cocktail party, on the subway, in a waiting room, or even on an elevator—with that one person who might change your destiny. Rather than be caught flat-footed when the magic opportunity arises, you're supposed to have your elevator speech at the ready at all times.
The speech comes in handy even when you meet people who can't make all your dreams come true, just as a shorthand form of introduction. And this is where I get stopped up.
Case in point: Today we met a couple who are moving in around the corner from us. We talked about the neighborhood and our respective buildings, and then came the point in the conversation at which we each said what it is we do. I have yet to find a way to answer that question that doesn't involve an asterisk and an explanatory footnote. I think I mumbled something unintelligible about being almost finished with school.
What I wouldn't give to be able to say something succinct, about which I was truly enthusiastic and proud—the way Zach says, simply, "I'm an actor."
I'm sure it will happen . . . eventually. But for the moment, I don't even know what to put down on my tax return, let alone how to identify myself to a stranger at a cocktail party (a situation I've faced at least twice in the past month).
With Zach's and my college reunions coming up next spring, I've got a finite amount of time to come up with a viable spiel.
And "cancer veteran" is not going to cut it.
Until I am finished with school, and until my dad is back on his feet, I am in professional no-woman's-land—unable to figure out the next phase of my peripatetic career.
This is hard enough for a planner like me—I like to know where I'm headed, how I'm going to get there, and what the weather will be like along the way. Not knowing these things upsets my equilibrium, weighs me down, and stresses me out.
But even when I can summon my inner Zen master and embrace the unknown and unknowable, it takes me only so far.
Because eventually I meet someone new, and that someone inevitably asks the dreaded question:
"So, what do you do?"
This, ladies and gentleman, is the opening for what is commonly called the "elevator speech"—the pithy, no-more-than-30-seconds-long summary of one's existence that, professional networkers will tell you, is the key to getting a job, a date, a great apartment, an audition, a record deal, a story assignment, a book contract, or whatever it is that you most want or need at any given moment in your life.
The idea is that you never know when you might find yourself face to face—at a cocktail party, on the subway, in a waiting room, or even on an elevator—with that one person who might change your destiny. Rather than be caught flat-footed when the magic opportunity arises, you're supposed to have your elevator speech at the ready at all times.
The speech comes in handy even when you meet people who can't make all your dreams come true, just as a shorthand form of introduction. And this is where I get stopped up.
Case in point: Today we met a couple who are moving in around the corner from us. We talked about the neighborhood and our respective buildings, and then came the point in the conversation at which we each said what it is we do. I have yet to find a way to answer that question that doesn't involve an asterisk and an explanatory footnote. I think I mumbled something unintelligible about being almost finished with school.
What I wouldn't give to be able to say something succinct, about which I was truly enthusiastic and proud—the way Zach says, simply, "I'm an actor."
I'm sure it will happen . . . eventually. But for the moment, I don't even know what to put down on my tax return, let alone how to identify myself to a stranger at a cocktail party (a situation I've faced at least twice in the past month).
With Zach's and my college reunions coming up next spring, I've got a finite amount of time to come up with a viable spiel.
And "cancer veteran" is not going to cut it.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 3:11 PM
1 Comments:
Hi Jody,
As a cancer survivor who got the diagnosis during career and geographical transition, I am with you here. Limbo is a really special kind of hell for the professional in transition.
It has been almost 2 years, and I have been juggling the balls of treatment, medical bills, school bills and constant cross-global exploration to try to get back a career. I am afraid that most of the time, I don't even have time to get neurotic about whether I will get a recurrence or some other bad thing.
As for the 30-second spiel and enquiries on how I am doing, I am somewhat lost. I have a choice of smiling and lying through my teeth, telling the painful truth or avoiding the meetings with people. I am sorry to say that I even agonise about emails from my favourite professors asking how I am doing.
Now, this 30+ year-old cancer survivor is trying to learn from you, the 40 year-old cancer survivor on piecing my life together again. You're probably more savvy here.
I came to your blog from the NYTimes where I left my little story in the comments sectionie #5. You seem to be doing well. Good luck if the internship at Mamm is really what you want.
PC
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