The Good Life
About a week ago today, my day began at 3:42pm. I woke up and dragged my feet to the fridge for something to eat. I couldn't decide between the tub of homemade granola that I store in those massive ice cream containers, and the leftover lamb and chickpea curry from 2 nights ago. After a few moments of silent contemplation, I decided that I wasn't hungry enough to need to decide. So I pulled a bottle of water from the door and watched cable news for a while.
At about 6 o'clock, my stomach began to growl. I scooped myself a cup of granola since it involved less preparation than popping the curry the microwave, and chowed.
Not long after that, the caffeine withdrawal headache and lethargy took its inevitable toll. I crashed in the TV Fort and woke up in time for The Daily Show. I then showered, lay in bed with a book and was out in less than an hour.
(The TV Fort is a 10 by 10 foot area in my living room bordered on three sides by my TV and a sectional sofa. It's got my TV, it's my refuge, and I defend it to the death. Hence the name, TV Fort.)
My friend Frank used to start conversations with me by asking, "How's the good life?"
In the throes of dissertation writing, I would reply, "What good life? Just drudgery here, man."
But these days, dissertation defended, tenure-track job acquired, summer classes over, I had to finally admit... this might just be the good life.
Today I woke up at 6am, made some breakfast to watch MSNBC's Morning Joe with, then biked to the nearby Whole Foods wannabe (all the organic food, none of the asshole customers) for some milk. I cracked open a can of organic cola, and sat down in a booth with my New York Times. I worked through the paper, gave up after 3/4 of the crossword, and came home in time for the late morning rerun of Jon and Kate Plus 8 on TLC.
It's 1pm right now. The landscapers are raising a minor ruckus outside with their leaf-blowers. My belly is bloated with a smoothie I made with the milk I bought. And this, I'm pretty sure, is the good life.
I can't say that this is typical. During the past semester, I pulled multiple all-nighters a week to prepare for classes. When I wasn't doing that, I was pulling my hair out trying to pound words out for conference papers. I'll soon have to interrupt this utopia with a manuscript I aim to complete during the summer. Someone did a study once and found that academics work as many hours as everybody else, they just have more flexibility and thus look like they don't work much.
But having said that, for weeks in the summer like this, the trade off is more than reasonable.
Frankly, I don't know how many hours a week I work. My schedule is so flexibile that work and play can and often does tend to merge. I also enjoy the work so much that I often have trouble calling it labor. I laughed at myself the other day, and couldn't stop snickering because I quite literally couldn't believe that I get paid to do this.
Is the money worth all those years in grad school? Probably not. Is the life worth all that investment? Yes.
Tony, a student who graduated with me, isn't feeling as hot these days. His adjunct contract wasn't renewed and he's screwed, for now. In my mind, Tony knows more than I do and is smarter than I am. Why am I in the good life and he in the throes of depression? I don't know.
The academic game is a random one. So many factors go into hiring decisions, 80% of which can have absolutely nothing to do with the candidate's qualifications.
I feel guilty about my relative success. Especially when people like Tony are struggling.
The book I'm reading right now is Then We Came to the End. The funniest book I have ever read, set in the office of a Chicago advertising firm. Douglas Coupland meets pitch-perfect verbal comedy. I can't say enough about it. Buy it, read it. You'll be terrified to find out how much you resemble these characters.
Part of it involves a fired employee who despairs at how he seems to have ceased to exist to his former colleagues. I always thought that the same would happen to me once I graduated. Former fellow grad students would run into me when I returned for a visit, say hi but scurry along with their own lives, their own dissertations to stress about.
Surprisingly, for the moment I appear to have a legend that is growing. I'm apparently discussed in near mythical terms as "the one who got out." Like the escaped prisoner who was never caught. The one who finished his dissertation, transitioned straight into a job, living the good life.
Part of their obsession comes with the territory. Grad students can't imagine graduating, let alone find work. Like right now, I can't imagine getting tenure, let alone get promoted. It never ends.
And before you know it, I've talked myself into believing that the good life is cause for depression.
You can take the man out of grad school, but you can't take the grad student out of the man.
I'm tired. Caffeine is a hell of a drug and I have none. I'm probably going back to sleep, and it's not even 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
At about 6 o'clock, my stomach began to growl. I scooped myself a cup of granola since it involved less preparation than popping the curry the microwave, and chowed.
Not long after that, the caffeine withdrawal headache and lethargy took its inevitable toll. I crashed in the TV Fort and woke up in time for The Daily Show. I then showered, lay in bed with a book and was out in less than an hour.
(The TV Fort is a 10 by 10 foot area in my living room bordered on three sides by my TV and a sectional sofa. It's got my TV, it's my refuge, and I defend it to the death. Hence the name, TV Fort.)
My friend Frank used to start conversations with me by asking, "How's the good life?"
In the throes of dissertation writing, I would reply, "What good life? Just drudgery here, man."
But these days, dissertation defended, tenure-track job acquired, summer classes over, I had to finally admit... this might just be the good life.
Today I woke up at 6am, made some breakfast to watch MSNBC's Morning Joe with, then biked to the nearby Whole Foods wannabe (all the organic food, none of the asshole customers) for some milk. I cracked open a can of organic cola, and sat down in a booth with my New York Times. I worked through the paper, gave up after 3/4 of the crossword, and came home in time for the late morning rerun of Jon and Kate Plus 8 on TLC.
It's 1pm right now. The landscapers are raising a minor ruckus outside with their leaf-blowers. My belly is bloated with a smoothie I made with the milk I bought. And this, I'm pretty sure, is the good life.
I can't say that this is typical. During the past semester, I pulled multiple all-nighters a week to prepare for classes. When I wasn't doing that, I was pulling my hair out trying to pound words out for conference papers. I'll soon have to interrupt this utopia with a manuscript I aim to complete during the summer. Someone did a study once and found that academics work as many hours as everybody else, they just have more flexibility and thus look like they don't work much.
But having said that, for weeks in the summer like this, the trade off is more than reasonable.
Frankly, I don't know how many hours a week I work. My schedule is so flexibile that work and play can and often does tend to merge. I also enjoy the work so much that I often have trouble calling it labor. I laughed at myself the other day, and couldn't stop snickering because I quite literally couldn't believe that I get paid to do this.
Is the money worth all those years in grad school? Probably not. Is the life worth all that investment? Yes.
Tony, a student who graduated with me, isn't feeling as hot these days. His adjunct contract wasn't renewed and he's screwed, for now. In my mind, Tony knows more than I do and is smarter than I am. Why am I in the good life and he in the throes of depression? I don't know.
The academic game is a random one. So many factors go into hiring decisions, 80% of which can have absolutely nothing to do with the candidate's qualifications.
I feel guilty about my relative success. Especially when people like Tony are struggling.
The book I'm reading right now is Then We Came to the End. The funniest book I have ever read, set in the office of a Chicago advertising firm. Douglas Coupland meets pitch-perfect verbal comedy. I can't say enough about it. Buy it, read it. You'll be terrified to find out how much you resemble these characters.
Part of it involves a fired employee who despairs at how he seems to have ceased to exist to his former colleagues. I always thought that the same would happen to me once I graduated. Former fellow grad students would run into me when I returned for a visit, say hi but scurry along with their own lives, their own dissertations to stress about.
Surprisingly, for the moment I appear to have a legend that is growing. I'm apparently discussed in near mythical terms as "the one who got out." Like the escaped prisoner who was never caught. The one who finished his dissertation, transitioned straight into a job, living the good life.
Part of their obsession comes with the territory. Grad students can't imagine graduating, let alone find work. Like right now, I can't imagine getting tenure, let alone get promoted. It never ends.
And before you know it, I've talked myself into believing that the good life is cause for depression.
You can take the man out of grad school, but you can't take the grad student out of the man.
I'm tired. Caffeine is a hell of a drug and I have none. I'm probably going back to sleep, and it's not even 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
posted by Teach | 11:41 AM
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