Washed Up

Photic Zone

Riley

Photic Zone. Noun. [foh-tik zohn]. The depth of the water in a lake or ocean that is exposed to a great intensity of sunlight.

My e-mail inbox dings on my phone as I walk to the Montgomery family's bike rental shop, and I stop in the middle of the crosswalk to open it. An angry Subaru full of teenagers honks at me, so I scuttle off the road and stop on the sidewalk.

Subject: Career Aptitude Test Results from CareerTalks

In my post-Ross-breakup haze, I went a little crazy about my career, googling career quizzes and reading about how I'm destined to work at McDonald's for the rest of my life. Even though I've calmed down a little since Ross and I made up, his vulnerability has forced me to reconsider my own life. He has the chance to pursue his dreams, but his family is holding him back. I have the same chance, but nothing's in my way.

Thus, a career aptitude test to tell me what to do with my life.

I open the e-mail, catching my breath as I do. If this says I should be a professional dog walker, I'm giving up. Instead the e-mail gives me my top career result based on the personality and interests test I took. The result completely shocks me.

"Clinical psychologist?" I exclaim aloud.

No. Freaking. Way. Me, a psychologist? I'm too screwed up to be able to help other people figure out their lives; I can't even figure out my own. Plus, don't you have to be a doctor to be a psychologist? That's like a thousand more years of school, and there's no way I could do that. I couldn't even make it through two years at Cornell.

Still, there's something about psychology that appeals to me. I love learning about people and trying to understand their stories and backgrounds. Plus, I did say I wanted to help people, and isn't that what psychologists do? I just can't picture myself listening to some middle aged businesswoman complain about her poodle's bad case of indigestion while lying on a lime green futon.

Give it a chance, Riley. I can't afford to just shoot down this idea without even thinking about it. If I want a career, if I want a purpose, then I need to consider my options rationally, not rashly as I have in the past. It took me all of five minutes to decide to drop out of Cornell, and I'm starting to realize I might have made a mistake by making such a rash decision. I have to think like an adult.

I continue to walk, slipping my phone into my back pocket. Dr. Riley Olson, clinical psychologist. It has a good ring to it, but becoming a doctor would take at least eight more years of school. The thought makes me want to reconsider my McDonald's career.

"Hey, Ry!"

I force myself out of my career-fear-induced haze to see Ross waving at me from the front step of the Montgomery bike shop. Ivy and Mason are with him, carrying giant mesh bags full of plastic molds, buckets, and shovels.

I grin as I approach them, squinting in the sunlight. "When you said we were building sandcastles, I didn't realize we were going to create some magnificent feat of architecture."

"I-I'm a great sandcastle builder," Mason declares, slinging one of the bags over his shoulder and bending under the weight.

"You'll have to teach me your ways," I say, grinning at the five year old.

After the argument in the middle of the surf shop, Ross and I both agreed that I needed another chance to get to know his siblings. Leaving halfway through our 4th of July date wasn't exactly the impression I was going for.

Ross greets me with a kiss on the cheek, and for a second, I wish the kids would scram so I could make out with him for a second. Get a grip, Riley.