is this it?

I had the following conversation with a fellow Susan today (yes, another person named Susan, and not actually myself--I'm not denying the fact that I talk to myself, I'm just saying that it's not what I was doing THIS time):


ME: I'm experiencing general dissatisfaction with the state of my life.


SUSAN: Ah. My feet hurt.


ME: That doesn't really compare to my existential angst.


Today I looked at the container I carry my extra-strength migraine relief Advil around in, and realized it's a little case that I got at the university fair waaaay back in my last year of high school. It advertises for monster.ca. I keep my work float in a hastily modified cloth cd case from the Alumni Association at the UofG. And here is a typical conversation I've had several times, with co-workers and customers:


X: So, are you still in school?


ME: Oh, no. I'm done. I graduated.


X: Oh? From... university?


ME: Yep. (pause) I... I have a degree in drama.


X: OHHHHhhhhh. Oh. Ahhh.


And the world again makes sense. Why ELSE would a BAH like myself be serving beer in a kilt? Drama. Even art history majors find something else to do. Am I going to suffer under the belief that I've wasted my life EVERY September?

But that's only part of it. I have to call my grandmother to thank her for a scarf she's knitted me. Go ahead, consider me an ungrateful wretch, but I'm dreading this call. Seeing as I've not only graduated, but have also reached a marriageable age, it is now my job to provide her with bouncing baby great-grandchildren. We've jumped right from pressing questions about boyfriends to the spawning stage.

Also, Grandpa likes to ask when I'm going to get a real job. It's bad enough when I ask myself that question; trying to justify your life to a man who was sent to a wartime work camp, moved across the world, and slaved away in a GM factory to support a family of five, among other things, is a whole level of worse.