Leisure of a kind

I am a graduate. An alum. A 2009 University of Oregon journalism survivor. I should be elated and dancing on air, walking on water, thrilled with the prospects of a bright future and endless possibilities.
Don't get me wrong; I am.
But the future of journalism is changing. Traditional media is no longer what it was and that means severe changes for the entry level reporting position. Consider how I spent my spring break. I applied to very nearly 30 reporter positions at newspapers all across the country. No such luck. At the very least, I was thankful for the numerous rejection letters I received. At least they had the decency to write me back. But most of them read something like this, "Dear Ms. Schmidt, we are sorry to inform you that we filled the reporter position at ______ newspaper. We were overwhelmed with the number of responses we received for this ____ position (or unpaid internship!!!). It would appear this is a sign of the troubling economy. Keep getting your work published and send us more clips further down the road. Best of luck, _______"

Elated indeed.

However, I am learning to become a young woman of leisure. For instance, I've completely caught up on my sleep. I don't think I've slept so well and so consistently at all in the past four years. I have time to prepare healthier meals, see the people I've lost touch with, socialize on "school nights," read for pleasure (I highly recommend The Magician's Assistant and Three Cups of Tea) and visit my family in beautiful Seattle spring time. Not taking classes in an odd feeling, though, when your roommates and friends are bogged down with exams and papers to write. But my part time job and internship are keeping me plenty busy. Yet when people-- and by people, I mean everyone-- continue to ask what my plans are for June until the rest of my life, I have no amazing answer. Me, of all people. I never thought I would be the kind of person to graduate and not have a scathingly brilliant fellowship or job lined up.

But alas, it has happened. A sign of the times, I suppose, as all the rejection letters state right there in the second paragraph. Perhaps it gives me more freedom, more license for creativity, more of a chance to find something I truly want to do, and not something I feel I should be doing, or what everyone expects of me.