If you'd asked me in my early twenties what my dream job was, I would have replied 'professional sunbather'. I have changed my tune, however, due to my naked photography debacle.
When I first turned thirty, I thought my dream job would be a paid book reviewer. The thought of reading books all day and writing about all the ways the author could have done better still sounds appealing to me on a certain level, but since completing a manuscript myself I realize just how much a person's heart and soul goes in to writing. Like dancing, when writing is done well it just looks easy. I spend enough time berating my own writing; I'm not sure I have it in me to spend my days berating the writing of others.
I started this blog almost exactly a year ago, and this combined with the spring I spent in Beijing watching every single episode of Sex and the City have made me come to the conclusion that my dream job is to blog-- like this-- for millions of dollars. I don't want to change the format; I don't want to plug any products. I want to be like Carrie Bradshaw, writing in my NYC (Pleasantville) home about all the ways in which a woman in her thirties can spend all her not-so-hard earned cash.
I am pleased to report that I am well on my way to making this dream a reality. Yesterday I received a note from Google saying that I had a check they wanted to mail to me for the advertisements I've allowed to automatically post after each of my entries. They have ranged from the ridiculous ("Interracial Dating Central" is the latest addition to my page) to the philanthropic ("Give to Catholic Charities"). Giddy, I logged into my account to see what the total of my earnings was.
Are you ready for this? Wait for it....
My head is still spinning. What does a woman in her thirties do with this kind of money? Does she buy not one but TWO Grande nonfat Chai Lattes? Or does she put it in her savings account, content with the knowledge that she only has to blog for another 60,000 years before she makes it to a half a million dollars?
A woman in her thirties foregoes the chai for now. She even holds off on the deposit slip. She puts such funds in a special place in her head, where they are safe. They serve to remind her that a woman in her thirties makes what she wants happen, $8.64 at a time.