Disquieting Reflections on a Job Hunt

It's strange how you can get used to things. Like the sinking feeling in my stomach. It's been there at some measure for the last four months, as I watch my savings dwindle and the job applications futilely flit about the Internet. I don't have a job yet. And it's been so long that I sometimes wonder whether I'll be able to sit in an office cubicle for 8 hours a day, staring at a computer screen. I've done it in the past, and I daresay that I can get used to it again if need be.

I dread being bored. It's a selfish and dangerous thought to harbor, I know, especially when I have little professional appeal. I can't afford to be picky in the positions I seek. Yet I ponder working data entry positions and shudder; I recall my last job, moving lines to match an aerial photo beneath them and I cringe. I contemplate a dull repetitive workweek and I want to...what? I don't know. How would I avoid this? Start my own business? That's a lot of work, and dull work, like finances and whatnot. Plus, I'm not endowed with the entrepreneurial spirit like some. I could see myself participating in someone else's effort, to help them and work with them, but to spearhead it myself? Not so much. No, really, the one place where work didn't feel onerous was while I was teaching during grad school. The work was hard, but it changed constantly. That is, the material I read to prepare changed, the students' writing changed (at least, the subjects did; I'm not sanguine about the efficiency and competency). I went to class each time with the expectation of surprise, of uncertainty. I could probably predict what my students would say, how many would stare blearily at me instead of participating, how many would whine or glare when assignments handed out. But there was always the chance, a slim hope, that I would be startled by some brilliant or original observation, a chance gleam of excitement in a student's eyes as they realized a new concept in their mind, a different way of looking at things. And when reading students' essays, there remained the possibility that I would be jolted out of complacency by a clever turn of phrase or thoughtful bit of analysis. And looking back on semesters, I could mentally chart the progress of my students, both in their writing and in their participation, their confidence in the classroom. It was pleasant to ruminate on. And even the prospect of devising new syllabus, choosing new material to implement, allowed me the process of creation, of weighing the journals with essays, the subjects with importance, the timeline with time. And all this was with composition courses. I don't even like composition. What would it be like to teach something I really like? Like Shakespeare? Or Tolkien? Or the Bible? Or Borges? Or Poe? Or the Romantics? What would that be like?