“Where am I going?” This has been the defining question of my early years in adulthood. Uncertainty came vacationing in the spring of my 14th year and for more than a decade, has never bothered leaving. It’s grown less conspicuous in its maturity, but to say its intensity has floundered would be a downright lie. If anything, it’s procreated, begetting little doubts that explode on my resolve like bees on the windshield of a fast-moving vehicle. The only difference is that my life hasn’t come equipped with wipers. So forward I stumble hoping not to misstep, all my chips banking on the fact that I am still moving. There’s an old English adage stating “a rolling stone gathers no moss” and I fully intend to milk the spark of my youth into kinetic motion for as long as it’ll burn.
Recently, I’ve been putting in motion plans that may lead to my next potential stumbling-ground. I’ve decided to apply to an ostensibly great Masters program at King’s College in London. It’d be more International Relations, but with this I’d actually have the opportunity to go into the workforce at respectable level rather than entering as a coffee jockey. If accepted to the program, abject poverty of Orwellian proportion will be my new bed-mate. I have but only a year (saving) to brace my bank account for the stifling expense of London. I’ve implemented a budget that would make homeless people blush.
My top lunchtime meal at the moment consists of the three cheapest things I buy each week; bread (88yen for 8 slices), tofu (92yen for 400 grams), and onions (39 yen a piece). Out of my overzealous frugality has emerged a surprisingly tasty little dish. Apparently, extra firm tofu has the same consistency as fresh mozzarella, so with a bit of pesto smeared on it my taste buds are none the wiser to the Italian impostor. In a country where if you ask the supermarket staff for cheezu you’re more likely to be pointed in the direction of the map section, fresh mozzarella pesto sandwiches reign supreme. This self deception reminds me a story I was once told by a German friend of mine. He recounted how his parents, living under Soviet poverty in East Germany, never had enough money to buy meat for everyone. So what they would do is buy a tiny morsel of either fish or meat, cook it and hang it from a string over the dinner table. Then everyone would close their eyes, fill their nostrils with the smell of cooked protein, and immediately take a bite from their loaf of bread that served as their dinner. In this way they might get the satisfaction of an actual meal later that night in their dreams. Of course I haven’t sunk to this level (yet) but I do have a slight worry that the added estrogen in my system will facilitate mood swings and man-tits. It’s going to be a long year…
However this is not the youthful optimism I shall approach with. Thus far my life has yielded many ups and downs, each with its own particular style of uncertainty, but through it all I’ve never hit anything insurmountable. Plus, financially, I’ve got the cliché of my generation on my side; “Charge it!” Wish me luck in my struggle.
