My sister graduated from NYU’s drama program just as I was embarking upon middle school, that magical step in learning in which you actually get to pick a couple elective classes all by yourself. I thought my sister and the whole notion of theater were both pretty nifty, so I kicked off fifth grade with Drama 1 and some really cheesy pantomime routines.

Four years and several productions later, I moved on. I changed schools and decided to mix things up a bit by switching from theater geek to cross-country geek. For a while I had given serious thought to pursuing theater in a much more substantial way, but I had also been strongly urged to consider future academic pursuits that would lead to a “real job.” Acting was a fine extracurricular activity, but being a grown-up apparently involved working 9 to 5 and earning a salary, and this would require a degree that involved numbers or something. Well, good thing I thought airplanes were pretty nifty, too, and I wasn’t too shabby with the maths, so I became a fledgling rocket scientist. Along the way I did one more play and spent a few years playing bass in a funk band in college, just to reassure myself that one could be an engineer in real life and a stage whore on the side.

Several years later still, I was in my third or fourth year of graduate school, doing more of them maths and crap, and generally hating life. My disaffection with engineering — or research anyway — took its toll on my passion for just about anything and was it painfully apparent to my family when I went home for Christmas. Late one night, my mother asked me a very silly question: “If you could do anything you wanted, now, what would make you happy?”

I call it a silly question because I considered myself well beyond the reach of any such contemplation. It was too late for such flights of fancy; I was pushing 30, I had invested a quarter of my life into becoming an engineer, and I was well-programmed into the Real Job 9-to-5 paradigm. I had also succumbed to delusions of — well, not grandeur, but at least importance. Or relevance, anyway. In this post 9/11 world I figured I could theoretically put my geek skills to good use someday in a way that might make this country safer; I can figure things out about rockets and submarines and energy supplies if I have to, and I can ’splain ‘em to people who make decisions. Even if I still wanted to get back to the joy I feel on stage, how the hell could I walk away from this responsibility to society that I’ve manufactured for myself? To do what, be on stage again for a living? Even if I made to the silver screen and took home an Oscar, what would that accomplish besides getting millions of schmucks to pay $5 for a bucket of popcorn?

So this week I’ve been struggling with the whole what-the-hell-do-I-do-next issue, combing the internets for jobs and spending far, far too much time trying to craft the language for business cards to hand out at conferences. I can’t quite figure out where to look for the right job because I’m not entirely clear what that job is; I can’t decide on the exact phrases to put on a card because I’m not sure who I’d be giving them to or what I want them to think when they see it. I don’t want to do engineering anymore, but I don’t want to ignore the fact that I am an engineer. I want to get into politics, but I don’t want to really be in politics. And I’m certainly not about to lend any credibility to the capricious notion of getting back into the creative arts, even though I compulsively dump much of my spare time and money into blogging, podcasting, video production, and even good old music on occasion. What the hell purpose on earth am I trying to serve?

And last night, while I was trying to explain this all to a friend of mine on four pints of beer and a bag of peanuts, I think I discerned the origin of my identity confusion: I’m not really an engineer, I’ve only been acting the part of one this whole time.

Now I just need to figure out what the hell to do with that idea, because this show has definitely jumped the shark.



Read more filed under Introspection, Work