What the heck is happening in our country? I’m not saying civilization is collapsing, but the department of “We Have it Totally Under Control” has:
built a wall around their house and then knocked down ours
passed an equality act that handed down a death sentence to women’s rights
and they’ve grown the national debt while thoroughly destroying the size of the dollar
I don’t know where we’re headed, but we might implode. With that in mind—
What I think the U.S. will look like in a post-imploded world
There will be many priorities right after the implosion, and essential workers will be needed back on the frontline. In case you’re wondering how useful you’ll be in rebuilding our country, I’ve gone ahead and listed what I think will be the top eight careers on the rise.
Starting with number eight and working my way to the number one job that will be needed post-implosion:
8. The Massage Therapist. There are going to be a lot of stressed-out people.
7. The Barista. We’re still going to want our coffee.
6. The Uber Piggy-Back Driver. Gas-powered cars will be outlawed and electric cars will have dead batteries – but people will still want their Amazon deliveries.
5. The Librarian. Hard-bound books are going to be sexy again.
4. The Food Taster. As tribes begin to form, the leader of each tribe is going to need a food taster if they want to stay alive.
3. The Complainer. Because there’s always one.
2. The Algebra Teacher. We all know how important algebra is to succeed in life.
And the number one job that will be in demand after the implosion is The Storyteller. We all need storytellers to tell us a good story before we go to bed—you know, by the fire. But mostly, we’ll need speech (used freely) to creep back in. Debating and disputing. Sharing and educating. Entertaining and engaging. Connecting and influencing.
Whatever you’re currently doing, I say start training for your future. You never know when disaster is right around the corner. Whether it’s a zombie apocalypse, a power grid failure, a meteor smashing into the earth, or an implosion by executive order, you need to go into the collapse knowing what job you are meant to do. Fostering a brand new society will take more than just that fighting spirit that is harboring inside you. It will need essential workers.
Today is my daughter’s birthday, and as much as I want to celebrate this day, I am not prepared. I never am. You see, today also marks 22 years since my dad’s death. When I look at the calendar, the first thing I see is my father dying all over again. Every March 1, while I know I am moving further away from his time with me, I am incredibly taken by surprise at how emotional I get. I can remember every brutal detail about the hospital room, but I can’t remember his voice. I swear, keeping his memory alive is getting harder and harder as time passes. More than two decades later, and I’m not prepared for this day.
Truth be told, our relationship was nothing less than an uphill battle. Yet, the process of living without him still is challenging. There are moments that I miss. Moments of him just being there, being a dad. I think while I was growing up, he was in this profound struggle; I picture him fighting this epic battle inside – and not winning. I don’t ever remember not wanting to be his daughter, but I also don’t remember loving being his daughter. And it’s not because of the things he did, but it’s the things he didn’t do. He didn’t tuck me in or kiss me good night. He didn’t help me with homework. He didn’t pull me onto his lap, tell me stories or spend any time with me at all. No daughter needs grand gestures; it’s all about the little things… and physical affection. But still, he was my dad.
Time marches on. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. But it certainly feels like from here on out, staying connected to my father will be more challenging. He’s more gone now than he was yesterday or ten years ago, and each new day, new year, new decade, he’ll be further away. Someday I’ll have lived longer without him than with him. Accepting this seems like adding a new layer to my grief.
And I’m not prepared for that day.
In a few hours, I’ll see my daughter. We’ll hug and I’ll hold on to her a few seconds longer than she’ll probably want—but I’ll be too busy flashing back to the time she turned five in that brutal hospital room.