this, the first day of autumn

(because self-portraits aren't just for preteen girls)

The mornings and evenings are cold, and I’ve unraveled my “kickass autumn wardrobe” (Brandy Rae knows what I’m talking about), and I’ve even started wearing my cowboy boots! You can see on the left how undeniably awesome/awkward and rustic I look. Couple this with my new affinity for all-natural light come sundown, and I’m slowly on my way to being a frontiersman. The advent of autumn always brings this out of me: deep down, I think, I’d be far more at home in colonial New England than in 21st Century Cincinnati. I’d love to replace my car with a horse (they’re far more reliable, in my experience) and live off the land in a world absent electricity (note: the show “Revolution” on Netflix is all about this, and the story is provocative and phenomenal, though the acting and dialogue is subpar). 

The time has come to start looking for another place. Blake is moving in with Traci when our lease is up, Corey and Mandy are moving to Covington to live with John G., and I’ve been perusing studio apartments in northern Kentucky. Because my hours at Tazza Mia have been cut from 40-45 to 30-35, I’ve found myself in dire straits. It’s a matter of pride and self-sufficiency to not ask for help, even when I need it, and I’m blessed that my dad told me he’d cover the deposit and then take it back come the end of my lease; thus I’ll only need to save up enough for the first two months rent. Nevertheless, it’s stressful, and a hack at my pride: I know that these “financial straits” are in no way reflective of my value as a person, of my intelligence, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. I’m thankful for parents and a sister who understand and are willing to help me out, and at least Willy Wonka understands:

I’ve been applying like mad to various jobs: call centers, NPOs, anything offering decent pay and forty hours a week. Tazza Mia simply isn’t cutting it anymore, and though I love the people I work with and consider them dear friends, it’s simply not viable anymore. Our sales have plummeted with Panera Bread and Fusian opening next door; since most of our sales come from our salad bar, and since our salad bar was so popular because it was one of the only places in that part of downtown to get fresh and healthy food, Panera Bread and Fusian—offering healthy selections—have pulled a large chunk of our customer base away. Couple this with the fact that we don’t have the money to do any sort of marketing outside Facebook (and is that really marketing?), and we’ve got quite a problem on our hands. The “skeleton crews” of the old days look good now: things felt stretched thin when we had three people on the floor, and now that we only have two a lot of days, it’s all the more hectic. And of course there’s no room for upward movement (as ASM I’m as high as I want to go; Store Manager doesn’t interest me in the LEAST, and I told Brandon as much when he asked if I’d be interested in applying for the position when it was available), and there’s no chance of a raise, either. Poor Chloe quit a job with better pay and benefits to be part of our team, and I just couldn’t find the heart to tell her how stupid of a decision that was. *SIGH* She’ll find out soon enough.

Looking for better jobs—needing better jobs—only makes Grad School all the more pertinent. Or, at least, it seems more pertinent. My bachelor’s hasn’t done much for me, and I’m lucky to not be swimming in school debt. Is the point of Grad School, of acquiring more debt for a piece of paper that I can reference on another piece of paper when applying for jobs, worth the risk of just drowning in debt and being forced to work eighty hours a week in dead-end jobs just to stay afloat? There aren’t any easy answers. I’ve thought about getting my Master’s in something like business, accounting, or marketing; marketable fields with decent income. But I have to be honest: as I told my dad over a meal of pancakes and eggs, “I doubt I’ll have the motivation to go through two years of school if it isn’t something that interests me.” He said that’s only fair. When I contemplate Grad School, I’m constantly turning my head back towards Norwich University and their Master’s in American History. Andy thinks I’d be phenomenal in the field of history. He said he thinks I’m one of the smartest people he knows; a lot of historians can paint in broad strokes, but I have the uncanny ability not only to perceive the “big strokes” but to see how it all works together, how history is interlocked; I’m able to see the unfolding story, how all the details come together like gears in a machine to create a world. I bore Ams almost to death with my historical rants, but Corey and Andy like them. Just last week I gave a lecture on 18th century warfare: muzzle-loading smoothbore muskets, linear warfare, the dreaded bayonet charged. My eyes were afire and the customers looked at me as if I were crazy (it’s a regular look I get). Andy told me I’m a phenomenal writer, that I could hammer out books in no time flat. It’s true: in just the past three days, I’ve written thirty-forty pages on the events of April 19th, 1775. Dad knows I’d excel in such a degree, but he’s practical: though I’d certainly enjoy it, what job would I be able to get? And what about all the debt? Besides, what does a degree prove? Why dump 20k+ for an education you can receive for FREE with a good dose of self-discipline?