It will not surprise you that, like many children of the 80s, it has taken me until my 28th year to work out what I want to do with my life. Before this eureka moment, the only other career aspiration I had was to be a Clown. A vocation, I think we can all agree, I have kind of achieved what with me being so bloody hilarious.
What’s that look for?
However, there are a select few who have always known what they wanted to do with their lives and spend every conscious, and the occasional unconscious, moment striving towards their goals.
During a recent broadcasting workshop, the topic of dreams came up and the question ‘But when do we stop trying?’ seemed to be a common concern. Surrounded by struggling actors, TV presenters and aspiring production managers it was clear that, despite years of sweat and tears, work experience, making tea, spending money on showreels and endless amounts of clicking our degree certificates together, no one felt as though they were getting very far.
It transpires that its not what you know, how you look or how ruddy talented you are, it’s who you know. Whether that be a friend of a friend who once stood in Starbucks behind the sister of the runner who knew someone who once worked with Davina McCall or your very own Daddy Warbucks.
But at what point are us mere mortals supposed to give up trying and fall back on something slightly less appealing and possibly even ‘mainstream’? Shudder. This doesn’t just apply to career aspirations. Oh no no. This also applies to saving for a house deposit, being the perfect weight and finding the perfect balance between pints and shorts on a Friday night.
Ok, not so much the last one.
We could all remain working in dead end but comfortable, respectable jobs with annual leave and pensions as standard. We could continue paying large amounts of rent to incredibly ungrateful, tight fisted landlords. We could continue to try and squeeze into the pair of jeans we ambitiously called the ‘goal jeans’ three years ago.
Sure, we would get up each morning and know exactly what the day ahead would bring. We would be reassured that, unless we strolled into our Manager’s office and slapped them round the face with a wet fish, we would have the same job this time next month. We could come home each night and watch Eastenders and wonder ‘who dunnit’.
But would we be happy and fulfilled? No.
So keep on going superheros! We’ll get there one day and be fabulous!
(aged 27 and 11 months)