The Irony of "Missing"

When I attended university--forgive my phrasing,I am not British, however, I feel that the word "university" more accurately describes my personal collegiate experience far better as a time of intense education, rather than the word "college," which is almost synonymous with a stereotypical concept of drunken, wild, try-anything-once partying, an activity I did not partake of when I attended Liberty University.At any rate, when I attended Liberty University, I majored in English, the perfect combination of reading and writing. There I was, thriving in an environment that indulged my insatiable desire to read, but also taught me how to more accurately pen my reaction and interpretation of the books I read. Reading has always been something I have done quite comfortably--and might I stress most enjoyably--all my life. And I adored everything about class--from the professors, the books, to even the papers assigned. (Yes, I have acknowledged that I have a strange obsession with writing. Papers excited me.) Everything about my classes I heartily enjoyed--except for that one semester in statistics, a rudimentary class proving I was in fact pursuing the correct career path. As a wise woman once wrote, "Algebra has never treated me right."

But then came graduation and I was faced with the real world. Now came to task the acquiring of a job--so easy in theory when a person is alone in their room, beaming satisfactorily over the resume with a slight flush of pride at all the academic accomplishments of the past four years. Until one begins to read the qualifications companies want in an individual they plan to hire. Then comes the slow deflation of the graduate confidence, until you find yourself curled up in the fetal position, bawling uncontrollably into your long suffering boyfriend's lap, occasional hiccups of "what the heck have I done" spilling from your mouth. After a good cry, comes the girding of the loins, the decision to make the most of your talent--get another degree to make your business self more marketable. Law school is too expensive, besides you have been told multiple times by well meaning family members that your temper may in fact be your undoing in a courtroom. So, what is left? Paralegal school.

I must admit, I enjoyed my year and a half of paralegal studies, not so much as idyllic as my first degree, but still, I was reading and writing, so my first degree wasn't going to waste. March down the road a couple years later, taking a brief reprieve to trot down the matrimonial aisle and a little detour down first home owner's lane, and you'll find me at a desk, surrounded by paper work with notes pinned to files that are as cryptic as the uni-bomber's notebook, while I feverishly type up a order to non-suit. And I'll be entirely candid with you, dear reader: this is not exactly how I anticipated my career would go. I enjoy my job, I really do. I work for two splendid attorneys and I find that I am actually quite good at what I do. However, I find I miss English. I miss discussions of literary works, of having some one read my creative work and give me a critique of whether or not it has a literary future. I miss reading books, real books, writing incredibly long papers with hours spent on research. I miss classes, feverish note taking, mind boggling professors, and classmates.

And the irony is yes, I miss reading and writing--even though I do both every single day of my job! So I suppose what I really miss is the creativity, the insight, the gathering of like minds...I miss literature.