Thirty is the new sixty-five

English degrees aren't particularly useful. I knew this even as I changed my major in college from Journalism to English after transferring to UNLV. While friends were majoring in practical fields -- business administration, nursing, education, economics -- I was floating through what felt like one big book club of studies. We read, we discussed, we formed opinions and we defended them.

This is not to say every English major was as lackadaisical with their futures after school as I was: forty-nine percent of my classmates were pre-law. The other forty-nine percent were minoring in education. The other two percent -- myself obviously included -- were neither. We all knew the "English majors are extremely valued in the real world for their writing and comprehension skills" was pretty much a bunch of crap. I mean, I knew business majors who could write nearly as well. The Fortune 500 companies wouldn't be beating my door down for my insightful interpretations of classic literary works.

I pushed these thoughts out of my head throughout most of college. I ignored a boyfriend's sister who graduated with her English degree and was gainfully employed by Pottery Barn. Similarly, I paid no attention to a friend's boyfriend who was a waiter at the Hard Rock Cafe...five years after earning the same degree I was pursuing from the very same institution.

But after graduation, I panicked. And flung myself quickly into damage-control mode. I signed up for the LSAT's. Registered for a year-long teacher certification program at UNLV. Bagged a public relations internship at a local PR agency. I would not fall victim to the huge pitfall that was my degree.

Within the first six months of graduating, I took a couple practice-tests out of an old copy of an LSAT study book, earned exactly the national average score, and was admitted to a mid-level law school in Southern California. I took a semester worth of education classes and disastrously student-taught seventh grade English three days a week. The other two days I was interning at the PR agency -- trying to quickly decide what it was my English degree had really prepared me for in the real world.

Admittance to law school was an ego-boost, but somewhat off the table. $100,000 in debt after a panic-mode decision in a field I wasn't entirely committed to was just too ridiculous. Teaching at a high-achieving school with well-behaved kids made me realize the education field really wasn't in the cards for me at the time. And so, by process of elimination, PR it was. I spun the internship into a job working in government relations and joined the real world. Living proof that English majors can succeed outside the retail and food-service industry.

And now, almost four years after graduation, the novelty of being in the real world has worn off. And I even somewhat enjoy my job. But forty more years of this? Of five-day work weeks, eight or nine hour days? People really do this until they are sixty-five years old? I can't even imagine life after thirty, and that's only five years away.

And aren't I supposed to have kids sometime? In fact, isn't, oh, now pretty much the sweet spot of child-bearing years? Not only is that idea completely preposterous to me, but it doesn't seem any less ridiculous five years from now.

I feel like some ominous post-college guidance counselor is checking in with me. Are you ready for all this, he/she/spiritual being is asking me. Because this is it, sister. This is the real world, the one you worked your ass off to join and finish college in four years after transferring from a junior college and changing majors. And it comes with your very own cubicle, stapler, and endless supplies of sticky notes.