Nonserious Nonfiction

I weighed myself this morning after using the bathroom but before putting pajamas on. That way I could get the absolute smallest number on the scale. But I was still one pound heavier than I wanted to be.             

I dressed in gray sweats, made coffee and toast, and sat in front of the television for 90 minutes. It’s 10:30 now as I open my laptop to do some writing. 

This is the elite academic lifestyle I spent so many days and nights wishing for. Sleeping in, worrying about my weight, and watching television. All the while feeling guilty that I’m not doing something more productive such as counseling depressed teenagers.

Sitting to write this now is my “throwing hands up in surrender” with respect to serious writing. I can write serious nonfiction, such as articles and chapters in edited volumes, and there are parts of the process I enjoy. But what I really enjoy is nonserious nonfiction. With nonserious nonfiction, I lay bare who, what, and how I am. That’s what I’m doing now. No flattering mirrors or impressive roles to perform. No laminated posters of professionalism or purpose. Just a kaleidoscope of mediocrity.

I’m nearly 40. Any future professional goal has either been met or will go unmet. I’ve reached the zenith of the trade: full professor. But there are no writing awards to my name. There are very few fans of my work. Seldom do I get emails about what I’ve done. Royalty checks are infrequent and small. I never imagined that I would be sleeping in until 9am and watching television in my sweatpants.

            

In two weeks, I’ll be back inside the classroom. My schedule will change only slightly. I’ll spend more time dinking around inside virtual classrooms, and I’ll have to make appearances at the odd committee meeting. But that’s it. 

            

Months will pass, and my retirement accounts will wax and wane with market fluctuations. In 10-15 years, I’ll retire. Possibly. It’s not like my schedule will change all that much. There’s really no potential that I’m squandering by continuing to work.

            

And now I feel a stirring inside of me, which means that I will soon sit on the toilet, and after that I will go for a light run. Later today I’ll expose myself a bit more through writing, and then maybe I’ll sweep the house because the dogs are shedding like crazy.

            

Perhaps in those 10-15 years I can learn how to stop pretending. Maybe I can figure out how to write without a filter—without a screen between my naked body and the world. Learn how to expose myself fully. Become a college professor with nothing to gain and nothing left to lose. That’s what humiliation and disappointment are at the end of the day: losing something that was mine only in my imagination.

            

I’ve lost—well, I’m losing—the illustrious professor career from my imagination. I work a satisfying job, but it’s no more or no less prestigious than working the cash register at the gas station. Someone’s got to do it—that is, at least until gas is completely replaced by electric, so to speak. Then I’ll have to find something else.