Confession time, kiddos: my new life plan terrifies me.
Don’t get me wrong, I am loving my new life. I have zero commute, can wear jeans to work (or scrubs as is the case this morning), I can play my music as loud as I want, get wash done, get shopping done and I have a really hot co-worker (Zac, that’s right he wasn’t a hallucination).
On the flip-side, however, there is no real plan for advancement or benefits. Plus, at the moment, the pay isn’t all that great. And I really like shiny, expensive things. So, while I know I love writing and being a writer and am even pretty good at it, I keep hearing the voices of guidance counselors past saying “It is really hard to make it as a writer. Maybe you should have a back-up plan.”
I know Snoop would tell me I shouldn’t listen and just keep on keeping on, but I can’t help it. I have my doubts.
It was these doubts that led me to the PR Institute.
Back when I still had a job at the agency, Bosley thought it would be a good idea for me to sign up for this six-week course on developing a communications plan. At the time I took it as a good sign that my job was secure. After all, why would the agency pay for me to take this course if they were planning on letting me go.
Silly, silly, Tatiana.
Last week, when a practical angel that still had her job called to ask me if I was still interested in taking the course, I hesitated. I don’t really need the PR Institute anymore as I have no interest in pursuing a career in public relations.
But then my reality started waking me up at night. And the follow-up questions from everyone about what I was going to do next started coming. I guess after a month, “writing” was no longer a good enough answer.
So I decided to attend the course. I contacted the coordinator, was assigned a team, and dressed in my cutest jeans and sleekest sweater, threw on my Burberry trench and plastered my most confidence-inspiring smile to my face.
I was going back in.
When I walked into the Center City office, it was easy to remember what drew me to this world in the first place. Everyone in the room was a pretty, shiny, expensive thing. All well-dressed, and well-coifed well-accessorized and stylish and smiling. Who wouldn’t want to be part of their world?
But just like my time on the cheerleading squad, I felt like a fraud.
Maybe I was just tired.
Or maybe I need another back-up plan.