It was one of those humid summer nights on Long Island. My friend and I went to a nearby diner — I was giving in to my regular craving for their savory chicken-caesar wrap — and walked around the local town. We talked about our lives, our relationships with those close to us, and navigating our way through our early 20s.
While I want to give this writing thing a try, my friend is learning the ropes of becoming a holistic health coach. We both are met with the odd stare here and there when asked, “What are you doing these days?”
Why? Well, we don’t necessarily desire to have conventional 9-5 desk jobs, and we aren’t looking to settle for unhappiness. (Of course, it’s only fair to mention that we have the luxury of not having to pay rent, and therefore having the privilege of cultivating what we want to do.)
As if on cue, we spot a familiar face around the corner. It’s an old friend we haven’t seen in months. Before I can initiate small talk about our night, he asks us what we’re doing with our time. My friend and I look at each other with amusement; somehow, “the job question” has become the forefront of conversation everywhere.
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