humble pie

I've been back in New York City for almost a month now, and I have yet to earn a penny. Given my psychological history and the reality of my financial situation, I should be a lot more depressed than I currently am.

Last night, shortly after my employment analysis, I found myself wide awake around 3 a.m. I checked the New York Times TV listings and, while encouraged that Dr. Phil received a star for "recommended series," I was discouraged to see that there were no Blind Date, Elimidate, or Cheaters-type programs to be found. There was, however, Sister Wendy: American Collection on PBS.

I had a minor obsession with Sister Wendy in high school and had since forgotten her. For the uninitiated, she is an elderly South African/Scottish nun with an inspirational appreciation for the visual arts. I grew up Catholic and had relatives in the nun business, and Sister Wendy, with her amazing buck teeth, weird accent, and inability to pronounce the letter "R" is truly something special. In her analysis of varied works of art, she directs the viewer to intricacies that in a casual museum breeze-through one would never see, and she describes her emotional reactions to each piece in compelling detail.

Between Sister Wendy, the subsequent program about Robert Frost's necessary stint as a farmer, and the Science Times blurb about a 100-MILLION-YEAR-OLD daddy long legs preserved in a piece of amber, I embraced Dr. Phil's advice to GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF. Though it might not feel like it right now, the fact that I am even agonizing over how to pursue a fulfilling career is a luxury, and being able to have thousands of dollars of credit card debt is something that 99.99% of earthly beings are never afforded. Because, of course, if the Somalians could wear Marc by Marc Jacobs the world woudld be a better place.