My Five Year Plan
“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” my interlocutor innocuously asked over his regular milk latte at FIKA on West 58th street. I stammered with a reply, not because of my stutter, but due to having no good response. It took me a few pots of tea and an undisclosed number of macarons at Petrossian, whilst reading Etgar Keret’s memoirs, to begin to identify the source of my discomfort with the simple query.
Five years ago, I had just moved to Los Angeles. I recently threw out a treatment for a reality show that was written during that time period. I spent time designing multiple startups that year, all of which greatly informed the past half-decade of my life, but none of which lasted a year. I had not even started working for The Kernel yet, nor had I left, or returned or left again. I hadn’t thought spent a moment thinking about distributed renewable wind energy yet, nor could I imagine being involved with a company for a few years working on ideas to implement concepts about that. I hadn’t walked a fashion runway for a charity (appearing in Vanity Fair), interviewed one of my favorite bands on the red carpet at the BBMAs, attended the Grammys, or ended up at 4am in the pool of a random hip-hop mogul. Like most Angelenos, I hadn’t realized yet that Los Angeles is actually in a dry subtropical climate and would be in a state of drought that would occupy a year of my life. Having only recently arrived, I certainly did not see myself leaving so soon.
Ten years ago, I was living in Jerusalem, in my third year of an MA program in History of Comparative Religion. I spent the summer studying either Latin or Greek, with the thought I would remain in academia for a while. I spent most days in a university library, researching my thesis that would never be completed. I went on a few dates with a beautiful, brilliant girl who pulled out a massive silver-colored semi-automatic handgun when we were stopped at the security before entering a cute book-filled café for a date, thinking that she would be the perfect girl to bring home to my parents. Not because of the gun, obviously. That scared the shit out of me. Almost as much as knowing that I would be living a lie. I thought Jerusalem would be my home for a very long time. I didn’t foresee moving to Tel Aviv only a few years later. Or start a company that would do business with China. Or that I would get involved in the technology industry, a move that flew me around the world. Or ever come out of the closet.
Fifteen years ago, I had just returned from spending two years at a Yeshiva (seminary) in Israel. I was studying Talmud intensely every morning in university, while starting my computer science degree, assuming that I would be a programmer like my mother, or maybe study for my rabbinical ordination, like my father.
Twenty years ago, I was a chubby 14 year old who left his parents’ home in New York and started at a brand new high school in a small suburb of a small suburb of Pittsburgh. I lived with my grandparents for the first six months, where I started speaking a broken Hebrew around the Shabbat table. I remember hearing that Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated that November. It was only months later that I visited Israel for the first time. I didn’t see myself four years in the future standing in Rabin Square on the anniversary of his murder and or know the feelings an 18 year old me would feel.
I have a dream of what I want to be in five years and it has nothing to do with what my profession is at the time. It doesn’t matter if I work in artificial intelligence, healthcare technology or management consulting. Or if I start a gluten-free fortune cookie company and write about a book about hair.
I moved back to New York a week ago because of the future. While I loved my life in Los Angeles, I felt that going back to where it all started would help me move ahead. There is something great about dropping by my little sister’s house for a chat on a random Wednesday night, or sitting down for a quiet Shabbat dinner with my parents on a random weekend. Or knowing that I can see my nieces and nephew who live less than an hour away or having my younger brother post awful pictures of me on Facebook at random times.
But you can’t exactly tell someone in a coffee shop that you want to be happy, healthy and stable in five years. I should have just responded “rich”. He would have understood. Hopefully, he’ll suggest a job that will cover all bases.