by Alice Aurell
If I meet one more person at the pub who asks, “So, what are your plans for next year?”, I might take a note from Minouche’s version of the social contract by fleeing campus, country, and continent. Nothing beats meeting a new person who immediately makes you question all your life decisions and quickly puts the ‘i’ in ‘imposter’. “Oh, how lovely you should incite my perpetual fear of the future in the middle of the club dancefloor as Jason Derulo’s sex life blasts my eardrum.”
Unfortunately, the wet blanket of conversation topics is apparently a stubborn fixture of the LSE experience. Fortunately for you as a reader, you are metaphorically speaking with someone whose parents are shutting down any suggestions of a British future with the same ferocity and speed as they berated dinner requests at Mcdonald’s – “No, do not live in London – there is unemployment at home.” While this perception of my own capabilities may seem slightly demoralizing, it can also be immensely liberating. Regardless of what Bloomberg fanboys may be telling you, London is not the beginning nor the end of the world. Having already failed multiple times at multiple things in London, I will be changing the scenery for my next set of failures. It’s not me, it’s Rishi.
Step 1: Move to a place where they have tomatoes in the shops.
Maybe I’ll move to Paris? When I was in Paris during reading week, I managed to navigate an entire French conversation about where the bathroom is. For the first time in three years, there was tangible evidence that the knowledge in my brain both mattered and had beneficial consequences. Does it matter if that momentary life-changing sequence of events was the most blissful bathroom break of my life? Probably not. But, also, who cares? The pure serotonin produced from a seemingly inconsequential moment was extraordinary, shining a light on the importance of redefining my internalized markers/idea of success. For example, in the future, I’ll measure a successful government by its ability to provide residents with the skeletal ingredients of a salad.
Step 2: Make fun of people who make more money than you.
It is not that I haven’t been applying to jobs. I have. But, my current inability to construct an email to my professors without breaking out in a full-body sweat prompts a reconsideration of my compatibility with the corporate environment. I am vehemently opposed to the possibility of locking myself into a work culture that values ambition (or working overtime), flexibility (or working overtime), positivity (or working overtime with a smile) and teamwork (group presentations are the bane of my existence). All I can envision are versions of the “So, what are your plans for next year?” conversation reconfiguring itself in distinct but utterly unoriginal and completely predictable speech patterns for another eternity of pub interactions.
Step 3: Ignore the endless pit of self-doubt in your stomach. It’s what everyone else does.
Maybe I am delusional. Maybe there is more to life than french bathrooms, tomatoes, and thoughtful conversations at the pub. Maybe my true calling is to become an investment banker who posts on LinkedIn just to feel something. Maybe using my degree in a conventional-advertisable-easily-capitalistic-digestible way is the true key to happiness. Maybe.
Step #4: You are existing for the first time in the universe. Cut yourself some slack.
I know I am incredibly lucky and privileged that my financial and emotional well-being, and that of those around me, is not dependent on my employment status post-graduation. Still, it is insane, unfair, and plain boring to insist that dreams, plans, and skill sets should be fully developed, wrapped and ready to go at the ripe age of 20-something. Or at 40-something, or at 70- something. Most importantly, as a 20-something you’ve got time. So, take your time. Make a choice. Any choice. Make a choice and then if you didn’t like your first choice, make another.
Step #5: Do the thing. That thing. The one you’ve always wanted to do.
