Loophole, or, Degrees of Happiness

It should come to no surprise to (least of all) me that after a year and a half of life in the real world (read: outside of theatre) I would grow listless, feeling creatively pent up, and longing to do that which allows me to emote publicly and absorb positive feedback for my nearly psychopathic need for attention. But even if it is not a surprise, it is something I’ve had to pretend would not overtake me in order to make a legitimate go of this DC life – offices, memos, networking – and of this attempt at a master’s degree.

The latest course to which I have set my reluctant rudder is toward finishing my degree as quickly as is reasonable, and then to explore further academic possibilities. On the surface, it sounds fairly straightforward, but it’s important to remember that the whole purpose of the degree – the whole reason I am here in DC! – is to take part in professional politics. To take an academic, professorial direction is a definitive-if-subtle way of saying that my master’s degree from George Washington University was fundamentally a waste of time and money.

See why I’m not supposed to think about it?

Unfortunately, the trepidation does not end there. I do find the prospect of teaching politics or communication or some such topic quite appealing. I have always had a kind of rosy view of the life academical, and pedagogy, at least on the lesser levels in which I have partaken, has usually given me great satisfaction.

But let’s be honest right now – no matter what I might wind up teaching, pursuing the necessary doctorate will in effect make my master’s degree moot. I would be a professor of whatever-I-go-to-school-for-next, which may have nothing to do with politics, professional or theoretical. In order to make my degree-to-be relevant, I would have to jump back into the fray of electoral politics, a prospect that as many of you know has lost its luster for me.

This is a roundabout way of saying that perhaps it’s time I go back to the theatre. Of course, theatre itself had lost its luster – in fact it was becoming something to which I felt shackled. I could no longer see the point in (or bear the idea of) entertaining middle class white people night after night with the same material. Sure, it was the best material in the world, but nothing seems quite as good as it truly is when recited for the 100th time.

Perhaps most importantly, the consequences of my choices now resonate beyond my singular (if substantial) ego. I have a wife, with whom I am deeply in love and to whose happiness I am utterly devoted. To “screw it all” and delve back into the existence of a just-above-starving artist would hinder terribly plans for a home, a family, or any kind of stability, let alone simple personal time to interact

So I am looking for a loophole. How can I rediscover what makes me who I am while not forsaking my wife, while not jeopardizing our future well-being, while not putting to waste the vast debt incurred in school in the pursuit of a degree that will wind up a curiosity hanging on the wall of a den I will never build?

And how can I be sure that would make me happy?

Suggestions appreciated.