Quarter-Life

It has been far too long since I've posted, and to any "regular" readers who may have given up on me, I apologize. Fear not. The Wandering Jew is still wandering, if not physically, than certainly mentally (as evidenced by the fact that I'm writing this post instead of the paper I have due in less than 72 hours, but then again, perfecting the art of procrastination is a requirement for budding PhDs).

Much has occurred since my last post, all of it positive, or at least contributing to progressive motion. I've become a homeowner, have quit my full-time job in favor of the life of an honest-to-goodness graduate student (I'm still working part-time to help put Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my bowl), and in just over a month, I will be sharing my new digs--a sprawling, deluxe 500-some-odd square foot urban studio (with a window!)--with the person with whom I hope someday to be sharing meals, bank accounts, and children (She's quite stunning).

Tonight is the first night in the new condo, and I'm posting from the area of the floor where, if all goes according to schedule tomorrow, the bed will be placed. I'll spend tonight on a makeshift mattress of dirty blankets over clean carpet, and I'll spend tomorrow neglecting my school work yet again, choosing instead to haul away the few possessions that remain in my old apartment.

For now, however, I'm left to reflect on what ownership of property represents for me as a young person taking the alternate route in this strange generation of fast money and big ambition.

I fear--nay, know--that I am spiraling unavoidably into the phenomenon that some of my colleagues have cleverly and accurately termed the "quarter-life crisis." I may have mentioned this in different terms previously, but as it represents a large chunk of my thought process lately, I'm devoting yet another post to the insecurities and uncertainties that are common when one pursues knowledge instead of cash.

But in all seriousness, I look at my two best friends from college, and I look at myself, and while I have much of which to be proud, I wonder if I haven't tricked myself into believing that I am better off taking this intellectual "high road," pursuing the life of the mind and eschewing greed and materialism and blah blah blah, when in reality, I'm simply doing myself a disservice. The two friends from college with whom I am in the closest contact are a soon-to-be-lawyer, and a computer programmer. The soon-to-be-lawyer celebrated his 25th birthday two months ago, and in two months will be an associate with a New York law firm making $160,000 base salary with an additional $50,000-$80,000 annual bonus (depending on the firm's revenue). The computer programmer makes somewhere in the range of $100,000-120,000 per year, drives a Jaguar, is about to buy his second home (while keeping the first as an investment property), and will be engaged to his girlfriend in less than a month.

I, by contrast, have never broken the $50,000 income barrier, am on no particular career track, don't own a car, and own my home only by virtue of the fact that I have ample savings from a "previous life" that I am loathe to spend on anything but the occasional investment. It's for my future children, not for me.

Life would be perfect if I were happily pursuing this doctorate, taking perverse joy in grad student poverty and knowing that some sort of lucrative career (see: college friends #1 and 2) or trust fund (see: college friend #3, who gave up a career with a Big 8 consulting firm to enter the restaurant business) waiting for me on the other end. But this is not the case. The primary option for somebody with a PhD in my discipline is academia, and in the academic job market, nothing is guaranteed. If you're lucky, you have tenure (and a livable salary) by the time you're 36 or 37. Most people aren't that lucky. The unlucky ones languish in adjunct, lecturer, or visiting assistant professor positions for years until finally giving in and entering industry or retiring and living on social security (the reality is probably not quite this gloomy, but it's close).

Add this to the equation: as painful as this is to admit, and I have tried to deny myself this admission ever since I embarked on this educational path, I like nice things. I like traveling abroad. I would love to buy a nice car. I would love to take my girlfriend to London for the weekend, or to Tokyo, or at the very least, to a high-end restaurant from time to time. I would love to buy a bigger home. I would love to wear nicer clothes, drink more expensive liquor, fly first class once in awhile. It's horrible. I feel like a glutton admitting this, but it's true. I like to think that I'm unmotivated by money--that with occupational passion will come financial security--but the truth is that I want to be a provider to my family, and I want to be able to offer them and myself more than an ordinary middle-class lifestyle.

So where does this leave me? The PhD has always been an ambition of mine. It's something that I've always wanted to do for self-fulfillment, and if I were to back out now (or sometime before actually earning the degree), I know that I would feel more than a twinge of regret. I'm not a quitter, and quitting this, of all endeavors, would fly in the face of the very core of my identity.

That being said, I am tired of counting my pennies. I'm tired of wondering if I'll be able to afford a family by age 30 (how horrible does that sound? "Afford" a family. Like it's the extra-large tub of Cheetos at Costco). I'm tired of having to choose between paying my mortgage or taking a vacation. I'm tired of the sympathetic looks and false encouragement of my peers when I tell them that, no, I'm not in finance, nor law, nor consulting. No, I'm a Grad Student! I might as well be saying, "I'm poor. I'll always be poor. I couldn't hack it in your world, so I'm being defiant and living, instead, in my own."

And yet, there is still that essential part of me that loves the pursuit of knowledge--loves the competition of it--loves wondering whether or not my paper will be accepted at the big conference. Loves knowing that failure is on the table, that it's an option. That's the part of me that thrives on uncertainty, on constant change, on doing things unconventionally.

But is that really fair to the people I love, who love me, and for whom I will someday be responsible as a provider? Is it fair to force this insecurity, this uncertainty, on myself, simply because I'm too stubborn to admit that maybe--just maybe--there's no room in this generation for empty-pocketed ponderers?

Stay tuned, quarter-lifers.