Well, Fuck.
Sep. 4th, 2001 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueIt looks as though I'm going to pursue a doctorate.
My father is going to kill me.
He's already upset that I'm an Economist. He considers this profession slightly less useful than a major in astrology. My father, you see, is an auditor. He spends his days correcting the mistakes of bad economists and accountants. (Not that he'd acknowlege the existance of a "good" economist as anything other than a crafty gambler.)
When outsiders remark, as they invariably do, how sweet it is that I'm following my father's footsteps into finance, we look at them with rancor. I try to explain that it's like the only son of a renouned classical pianist abandoning the conservatory to play New Orleans jazz; my father compares it to a respected paleontologist's child becoming a die-hard creationist preacher.
We don't even talk about the stock market.
This doctorate thing is his worst nightmare. It marks me as An Academic, possibly destined for professorship or public policy analysis -- two areas known in my family as "Cloud Cuckoo Land." That he wholeheartedly supports my sister's decision to become a beautician cum tattoo artist is irrelevant; I was supposed to go into business, or arts and entertainment -- not this fantasy of socratic philosophy.
It's a good thing that we really like each other, or I doubt I'd live through tomorrow.
My father is going to kill me.
He's already upset that I'm an Economist. He considers this profession slightly less useful than a major in astrology. My father, you see, is an auditor. He spends his days correcting the mistakes of bad economists and accountants. (Not that he'd acknowlege the existance of a "good" economist as anything other than a crafty gambler.)
When outsiders remark, as they invariably do, how sweet it is that I'm following my father's footsteps into finance, we look at them with rancor. I try to explain that it's like the only son of a renouned classical pianist abandoning the conservatory to play New Orleans jazz; my father compares it to a respected paleontologist's child becoming a die-hard creationist preacher.
We don't even talk about the stock market.
This doctorate thing is his worst nightmare. It marks me as An Academic, possibly destined for professorship or public policy analysis -- two areas known in my family as "Cloud Cuckoo Land." That he wholeheartedly supports my sister's decision to become a beautician cum tattoo artist is irrelevant; I was supposed to go into business, or arts and entertainment -- not this fantasy of socratic philosophy.
It's a good thing that we really like each other, or I doubt I'd live through tomorrow.
