Today I bought a planner because I thought I had some idea of what I wanted to write about. I was confident enough that planning ahead sounded not only logical, but rather delightful. So here I am. It's Monday, but what does that mean now that I am (f)unemployed? Does it mean anything? I feel like it should, and before I delve too deeply into the idea of time as a construct imposed on humanity by modern society to appease the masses, here's what I figure: the rest of the world is still functioning at it's normal frequency, people working, commuting, and picking up a pay check. I'm living on the outskirts, floating freeform through the minutes, hours, days, and there's nothing but outside pressures to enforce a normal daily life for me. It's a different world, the 9-5, and I admit it has been a long time since I lived that sort of lifestyle. Actually, I've never just had a 9-5-Monday-to-Friday-nights-weekends-and-holidays-off kind of life. Even when I had a "regular" job I was still putting in hours at a second job during nights and weekends. This is the longest gap in employment I've had since I was sixteen. From junior year of high school until March 17th of this year I had never not been employed. What do I do if I don't have work? What do I talk about? Complain about? What do I say when I go to a party and I don't know that many people and they don't know me and they ask me what I do? What do I say? What could I say? And what about on dates? Do I tell them that I'm unemployed? Do I say I was fired or that I'm just "in between jobs" or do I lie? And what does my lack of a job say about me? Does it even matter? Should it even mater? I have so many questions, but they all lead me to one thought: what do I want to say?
I understand it's a loaded and rather trite question to ask yourself when you're only 3 posts deep into an alarmingly self-indulgent blog, so let me set the scene. You're at a party. You're making jokes. You're feeling hot. You're charming the pants off of every be-speckled man with a beard and then some uninventive ass hat drops the "oh, so what do you do?" line and assaults the flow of conversation. Everyone goes around. Oh, I'm a waitress, but I'm really an actress. Oh, cool, I work in production, but I just wrote this really awesome short. We're filming this weekend. Oh, me? I do really important work, watch me name drop. Really? Do you know Name Bomb? You think the party gods have smiled upon you, that the circle has ignored you and for once you are eternally grateful. But then one kind and misguided soul notices that societal burn, making eye contact as she says it: What about you? Everyone waits for you to answer so that they can feign interest and go back to talking about themselves. You truly wish that they could. Your friends already know your plight. They know how, when, why it happened. They've heard the story. They don't need to hear it again. Strangers and the uninitiated don't need to hear it in the first place. If you say you're unemployed you get the "Oh. Well what do you want to do?" What are you looking for?" "What are you waiting for?" They spout off Pinterest-worthy mantras for finding your life's calling and ask open ended questions like you don't already wake up with a thousand questions marks screaming a hole in your sleepy brain every damn day. If you say that you're in between jobs people have the urge to ask you why you don't have a job. How come you aren't working? Are you tired? Are you sick? Are you lazy? Are you looking for something better? Are you just fucking bored of it all? And then you're back at "So if you could do anything in the whole wide world, what would you do?" and the whole conversation has been hijacked by the subject of you and your hopes and dreams and failures. It's all too much because you can't help but say "I just don't know."
Hello, everyone, I am clueless and lost and far too self-conscious to tell you all about what and when and why I want to do anything because I do not know. It's so very nice to meet you, too.
Let's be real, though. I don't like it anymore than when I had to say I was a retail manager (not that there is anything wrong with that. I think everyone should have to work at least a year in retail in order to understand how to be a conscious consumer, hard worker, and not an asshole. The world would be a better place). I just never liked how the words fell out of my mouth. It made me frown and slump my shoulders. "I'm a retail manager. No big deal." I always capped it with some kind of irony, which was my way of stating that I well knew my job was lame, even though it really wasn't (discounts, flexible schedule, health benefits, vacation pay - it was a decent gig if not completely uninspiring to me). At least now that I'm "in between jobs" I report it with some kind of enthusiasm. There's a least some hope in my tone, though the hope is starting to wain as of late. Still, the fact remains that I was no more proud of myself when I had a job than I am now that I am without one. I don't want to admit that I place my self worth in any sort of title or career, but I do. It's hard not to define yourself by what you spend most of your time toiling over. Forty or more hours a week were dedicated to managing a team of people, a sales floor, a pretty successful department. I was always reluctant to define myself by those terms, but I did it anyway. I'm doing it now. That's my problem. In my quest to find a paycheck I am inadvertently searching for definition. What am I? Who am I? I don't even know. Part of me doesn't want to know. What if I don't like it? What if I cant find it? What if I am nothing? It's all so daunting.
I've been paralyzed by these questions and my own lack of answers. I understand that I am more than a job, but the past month has seen little initiative on my part to reverse my joblessness. Alarm bells are beginning to sound. Things keep swirling in my head and the good news is that the same ideas keep resurfacing. I'm honing in on what exactly I want to do and how to do it, which is a relief, but it's not exactly feasible, not exactly realistic, and not exactly a fully-formed plan. I'll spare the details for now, but I'm going to indulge myself here and put it out into the universe. I want my own shop filled with beautiful vintage treasures picked with love from all around the country, nay, the world. I want to be my own boss, my own buyer, my own creative director, my own curator. I want to buy and sell and trade vintage clothing, vintage housewares, vintage splendor. I want to spend hours looking in dark corners and hidden spaces for dusty nostalgia. I want to pull thoughts and feelings and memories out of the lost and forgotten pages of american consumerism and resurrect, reignite, redefine those intangible notions.
What do I want to do?
Seek treasure.
Where do I want to go?
Everywhere.
What do I want to be?
A storyteller.
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