I emerged from my thesis defence into a world of old stone buildings and turbid alleyways, where damp January gusts tugged at my ceremonial robes beneath huddled streetlamps. Shortly thereafter, I arrived at the celebratory venue and stumbled into a haze of warm soft lights and bright accolades, suffused with congratulations and overflowing champagne. After three intense years of graduate study in England, I left amid a blur of thank-yous, goodbyes, glad-to-meet-yous and stay-in-touches.

One year later, I have swapped the storybook byways of Oxford for the stark vertical lines of Chicago and my first postdoc position. When I was a graduate student, I coveted the postdoc existence: all the freedoms of faculty without the responsibilities, liberated from the maddening handicaps of studenthood. It would be like going to college all over again, except that this time I could buy my own beer.

So far, so good — the drinking is great, and the science is better. Still, now that I have entered the academic career stream, I can feel the currents pushing me to find a 'real' job before my doctorate starts to yellow at the edges. Nobody likes a postdoc spinster, but I love this life: experimenting with new approaches, building a foundation while broadening my horizons, following my nose instead of my grants.

Who's in such a hurry, anyway? The academic job market is dire, with many postdocs from past years still circling the runway. Rather than join the fray, I think I will linger here a little longer. Sure, I have questions to answer: specialize or diversify? Publish the low-hanging fruit or risk the tastier stuff higher up? But for now, I am content simply to enjoy the ride.