‘You’re more likely to find me at Old Chicago after midnight researching for senior seminar.’
Hungrily, I don’t know what I’m doing.
[Editor’s note: “I don’t know what I’m doing” is a recurring personal column that pays homage to Johnny Auping’s “I have no idea what I’m doing” personal column in The New Yorker. Opinions expressed here belong only to the author, and, we hope, nobody else on the planet.–Josh Towner, opinions editor]
By Jared Martinson | Sports Reporter
I have no idea what I’m doing.
I know that I come across as a person who’s always willing to step up and help out. And to my core, I am exactly that — I love to help. I play guitar at almost every Friday in chapel even though it’s outside of what my job as a worship leader here requires of me. You’ll always have a ride to and from the airport if you’re friends with me.
But as I write this sentence, and consequently put off sending an email asking for a phone interview regarding my next story assignment, I’d just as soon climb into a cubicle and grind away at spreadsheets for hours with no end in sight.
I have no idea why I started having stomach problems randomly in September. It could be from the nightly frozen pizza intake, but I’d like to think it was just general stress. Either way, I’ve jerry-rigged the oven to be automatically preheated to 425 degrees without even having to turn it on. That’s how good I am.
I’m not motivated to count calories in chemistry lab, nor inclined to do the same in the DC.
I’ve owned a car for two years. I’ve never been pulled over and am dreading the day it happens, because I still don’t know what the registration part of “license and registration, please” means. I’m scared to put air in my tires because what if I just let out all the air instead?
Sometimes I hate basketball, which is weird because I once went on a pretty disappointing date where I talked only about basketball the whole time, leading to being coined “Basketball Jared” by this lady’s friends. I think it was disappointing for her too. I can’t deny that my favorite part of every day is loading the 70-tab Google Sheet of every NBA player ever’s advanced statistics and filtering out random numbers to find unique lists.
I’m not motivated to count calories in chemistry lab, nor inclined to do the same in the DC. You’re more likely to find me eating a pub pizza at Old Chicago after midnight rather than burning the early morning oil researching for senior seminar projects.
I’m ready to graduate, get married and be a worship pastor. I’m also ready to be a prep sports reporter at a local paper. I’m also not ready to do either of those things at all. More than half the money to my name is currently in a jar. I’m a senior in college and feel like I have a freshman grasp on my life right now.
So as you can see, I’m Honkytonk Badonkadonking my way through life right now; hating to see myself go, but loving to watch myself leave. Yes, I’m finishing this essay with a country music song from 2005 because I’ve probably exhausted every other kind of kicker conclusion possible in my four-year college journalism career.
