By Henry Colt
Last week, my housemates threw an impromptu viewing party for the first episode of Season 24 of “The Bachelor.” It was a cozy Sitka winter scene: one group of twenty-somethings watching another group of twenty-somethings vie for the affection of a boyishly handsome Delta Airlines pilot on a thumbtacked bedsheet that was doubling as our screen. Outside, snow fell; inside, heat pumps cranked.
It had most of the ingredients for a great evening – beer, hard-cider, and Juanita’s tortilla chips – but one attendee (me) wasn’t enjoying the refreshments.
I was a “Cub Reporter” eager to lose that nickname, and a key source for an upcoming story (let’s just call him “Source”) was sitting in a chair in our living room watching “The Bachelor” and casually eating Juanita’s like a hapless deer munching on vegetation.
Before I became a Cub Reporter, I had a job where the word “professional” was frequently thrown around. At first, I had little idea what it meant. All I knew was that generally, when my coworkers and I did good things, our boss would reward us with the word. Gradually, I came to realize that our rewards had something to do with dressing, acting, standing and speaking a certain way, of approaching ourselves and our work with a certain air of adult seriousness. Even though I wasn’t sure I valued every aspect of this new “professionalism,” I still strived for it, mostly because the act of striving – final destination notwithstanding – seemed itself a solid indicator of professionalism. As I strived, an ideal began to construct itself in my mind: the Serious Young Professional – a go-getter who works perpetually, sleeps seldomly and runs around urban places hurriedly, wearing Blundstone boots.
Which was exactly who I was trying to be – down even to the Blundstones (a recent acquisition, the first non-sneakers of my adult life) — when I pulled up a chair next to Source and started peppering him with questions.
Source answered most of my questions, but he seemed more interested in “The Bachelor.” He laughed whenever the Delta Airlines pilot did something awkward. He cringed whenever a contestant said a self-demeaning line (lines they had likely been force-fed by the show’s mostly-male producers).
Still, I pressed on.
But between questions, as I glanced at Source trying to get back to the action of “The Bachelor,” I realized there was a gap between what Source and I were experiencing.
In my determination to take work home with me, I had effectively removed myself from the scene. I had become a solitary twenty-something watching a group of twenty-somethings watch another group of twenty-somethings on a bedsheet.
It also dawned on me that my image of the Serious Young Professional needed some serious editing. He or she or they would still be a caffeinated go-getter — but now one who didn’t need to always be on the job. In fact, the thing that would make Version 2.0 even more professional would be the addition of an on-off switch, which would allow 2.0 to kick off its Blundstones at the end of the day and have some fun.
There were only a few minutes left in “The Bachelor.” I canned my interview with Source (it could wait till morning), plunged my hand into the bag of Juanita’s, and cracked a beer. I let the first sips take me back to our warm bustling apartment.
