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I was going to be an archaeologist, but my father had a family friend talk me out of it.  Already a junior in university, I still hadn't declared my major.  My wide-ranging interests had me in classes like Descriptive Astronomy, Medical Anthropology, Philosophy in Literature, and Abnormal Psychology.  I was getting better grades than I ever did in high school, but not being clear about what I wanted to do after college was worrying my parents.  I suppose my love of Indiana Jones movies was not a great reason to want to become an archaeologist, but I thought it was enough until Mr. Baylor stopped me before he went back down to my dad's den to continue the poker game they had going.

Mr. Baylor leaned towards me confidentially, a green can of Genny Cream Ale in one hand.  "There are hundreds of starving archaeologists sitting around the streets of Greece, hoping some established dig will pick them up."  He shook his head sadly.  "Hardly anybody makes it nowadays.  My son saw them.  Students wasting their lives hoping for a chance at a famous dig.  It's not a viable career anymore."

I nodded and listened to Mr. Baylor's advice, urged on me by my father.  So I went to school the next week and declared my alternate choice as my major: English.  English major, with a goal of being a writer.  Yep.  Much more likely to be a viable career.