Here and There and Back Again

A lot has happened in my life since I wrote about riding bikes with Lance Armstrong slightly more than a year ago, which incidentally is the last time I felt the need to write anything on this here blog. In the past year, I hurt my knee doing sweet jump rope stunts; saw Lady Gaga in concert and consequently got vertigo from our seats, which were basically at altitude; had an uneventful thirtysomething birthday got a trophy for my birthday;  pet my dog; probed important City Council issues here and here; got a masters degree in hand-wringing and considered becoming a Vegas showgirl during an inaugural trip to Sin City.

But perhaps the most significant thing that happened to me in the last 365 days is that I became unemployed. By my own design. I made myself jobless. Yes, I am one of the three people of suspect intellect who left their jobs in this stagflation recession depression with no other job in the horizon. My departure was mostly a result of this and this, but there were other factors as well, such as the fact that I felt that I needed more time to sit on my couch in an oversized sweatsuit I stole from a wrestler when I was in college. Seriously, working a 50-hour a week job just did not give me enough lounging time. So I ditched that old ball and chain in favor of freedom. Oh, and uncertainty and instability. My faves!

During my two years and four months at Vermont’s alt weekly paper, I did a lot of stuff. Like I perfected the office chair spin and raised pencil tapping to a high art. I answered my phone and replied to some emails. But not all of them. In fact, not most of them. And when I wasn’t doing that stuff, I was writing. A lot. I filled 75 reporters notebooks and penned 218 stories. Some were pieces to be proud of, like these guys. Others were total clangers like this beauty. Or this one. God, I hated that one. Well, you can’t have a winner every time.

I was also writing blog posts. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150 of those suckers during my tenure. I don’t know the exact number because I don’t like to count above 100. Here are some of my favorites — I like this one and this one and this one and I really like this one. I love me! It was a lot of fun, writing those screeds and passing them off as “journalism.” Who am I kidding? No one actually thought it was journalism. Except for the people who commented on this post. Eek.

But I really did enjoy my time at the paper. I met amazing people and got to do ridiculous things. And then I got paid to write about it all. As I was reminded by higher ups when I was naughty, people would have killed for the job. And I gave it up. Uh, what was I thinking?

Here’s what I was thinking: I value my dignity and integrity more than I value a steady paycheck and the attention that comes from writing bowel-blowingly hilarious pieces. I’d rather take a chance on the unknown than be penned in, unsupported and censured. If that sounds vague and mysterious, it’s meant to. Just know that taking a flying leap felt better than spinning in my chair.

So it’s been about three weeks since I liberated myself and it’s not been easy. Nor did I expect it to be. I anticipated the panicky night sweats, low-grade stomach aches and stabbing eyeball headaches that I’ve experienced since my self-extracation (though I did not predict the searing acid reflux). I even anticipated the antsiness and boredom that I figured was a part and parcel of unemployment. Unless you like having nothing to do all day long. Or you’re a stay-at-home mom. What I didn’t quite foresee was how crap it feels prostrating yourself to some 23-year-old for a seasonal customer service job. Or how enraged I get when people ask me what I’m going to do. I realize it’s all well-meaning, but I don’t have a good answer (no one has yet believed that I’m working as a high-end escort for the visually impaired) so please stop asking. When I get a job, which will be never, I will tell you. I will shout it from the rooftops naked, unless it’s cold out. In which case, a Facebook message will suffice. Until then, please can it. I’m talking to you, Mom and Dad.

Unemployment is an odd thing. I’ve worked since I was 15. Ok, work is maybe too strong a term. But I’ve had jobs. Since my first job restocking the racks at a bridal gown store during prom season (and struggling to zip plump girls into dresses three sizes smaller than they had any right to fit into), I’ve always had gainful employment. I’ve worked as a telemarketer, a pharmacy assistant, a dog’s body in the accounting department of a law firm, a receptionist at a private fitness club, a boarding school teacher, a lacrosse coach, a teaching assistant, a camp counselor, an assistant in an afterschool program and a waitress in an Italian restaurant owned by a morally bankrupt coke fiend. But by far my favorite job has been as a writer.

For obvious reasons, being a writer is awesome. You get to chronicle your life and the lives of people in your community (and around the globe, if you’re good). People read what you write and sometimes they like it, but mostly they hate it. Unless you write about unicorns and rainbows and gumdrop trees. No one can object to those things. But there’s a kick you get from being a writer, from people knowing you’re a writer. Even if journalism is given about as much respect as currency traders and mortgage managers these days, people still are impressed if you say you’re a writer. Especially if you say you’re Jackie Collins, which I tend to do when I introduce myself to new people.

The challenging thing about leaving a professional writing job to sit on your couch in your oversized sweatsuit is that you can’t really say you’re a writer anymore. It’s not really a part of your identity, unless you’re a liar or a prolific freelancer. And if you’re like me and you’ve crafted your entire sense of self around a job title, then you’re kind of fucked. So awesome.

But I’m trying to get over it. Hence applying to every menial seasonal job I can find. I’m working to shed labels, so I figure what could be better for that than getting some crap job that I feel zero attachment to whatsoever? And seriously, I was making way too much at the paper. And my benefits, including a kick-ass high-deductible health plan that covered approximately three percent of my healthcare needs, were more than I deserved. Which is why I’m totally stoked to get a $9/hour job with no benefits lifting boxes, packing boxes, unpacking boxes, boxing up boxes, etc. If any of you want to give me one of those jobs, I’d be more than happy to take it, because as of yet I haven’t gotten any callbacks.

Stay tuned for more adventures in middle-class unemployment. Or as my father says, middle-class aspirations. As in, I aspire to be middle-class, but I don’t make enough to even come close. Well, actually Dad, I aspire to be in the one percent. So you can stuff it. To the rest of you, thanks for reading. Please come back soon.