I was fifteen years old when I found my Dream Job.
I was fifteen years old when I decided that it was my goal in life to graduate college and become a “hotdogger” for the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. After all, what could possibly be better than driving a giant hot dog around the United States for a year, exploring new places and meeting new people? Nothing. It was perfect. It was a job meant for me.
It said that a degree in marketing was recommended, and I was off and running from there.
I was seventeen years old when I started at Champlain College. I had my next four years planned out as best as I could. I would major in marketing, be involved, travel, and meet new people. Then I would graduate and begin my Dream Job.
I was twenty-one years old when I fell in love with advertising. It had been there the whole time. Whispers of it surrounded every aspect of my life. As my brain had been focused on the golden hot dog at the end of the tunnel, my heart had taken an entirely different road.
I was twenty-years old when I realized that I had been telling everyone about the “Dream Job” of a fifteen-year-old girl. Not that the job still didn’t sound amazing.
Who wouldn’t want to spend a year traveling the country, appearing on radio spots, television talk shows, and talking about one of America’s favorite brands?
A part of me answered. You don’t. Do you?
I was twenty-one years old when I applied. After all, I’d been talking about it for six years. I sent in my resume. I had a phone interview. I was one of twenty-nine people flown out to Madison, Wisconsin, for a final round of interviews.
Then I waited. And waited.
As I waited I went over every single aspect of the job. Would I enjoy the chance to push off being an “adult” for another year and figure out more about myself? Yes. Would I enjoy being on my own for a year as all of my friends were starting their lives, decorating their apartments, exploring their own cities? No. Would I enjoy getting to meet new people and see new parts of the country, while getting paid to drive around the coolest car known to man? Yes. Would I get to really pursue my passion for writing or develop my creative talents? No.
I waited some more. I agonized. I couldn’t decide.
Then I got the email. They had decided for me. I would not be a part of this year’s hotdogger team.
Seriously. It’s okay.
The girl that applied for this job was still fifteen years old at heart. She loved the idea of it. The way people opened up when she talked about this “dream”. The chance for adventure. The hot dogs.
Call it fate or destiny. Call it the Universe. Call it a panel of businessmen in Madison, Wisconsin. Call it whatever you want. But the truth is, “it” proved to me that this was not my path. My path is an apartment that I can decorate and call my very own. My path is (hopefully) a job that gets me excited about going to work every day. A job that allows me to create things with my hands and with my mind and write a lot and maybe even travel. My path is exploring my own city. Getting a pet. Creating habits and making friends and finding regular lunch spots that I go back to every Tuesday. Or Thursday. Or whenever the hell I want.
So it’s true. I got rejected by my “Dream Job”. But the good news is that it wasn’t my dream job anymore. So it’s okay. Really. I promise.
After all, isn’t Hebrew National really more delicious anyway?