If I was looking for a job, the last thing I'd want to do is wake up bright and squirrelly, contact my acquaintances for leads, check Simply Hired, Craigslist, revise my resume, write a clever cover letter and make an Excel spreadsheet of all my efforts.
What I'd like to do is lay in bed, catch up on Lost, respond to emails (and by that I mean complain about my life to anyone who will listen) and play Scramble on facebook.
Why can't it be that way? Why? Why?
Back in the day, I used to wait for the Sunday edition of the L.A. Times, 'cause that's when the majority of the best job ads would post. I'd scour 'em and circle some. Couldn't do any research on the company because there was no freaking internet. And then I'd type up a cover letter (my resume was photocopied already, although we called it xeroxed) and mail 'em out on Monday. And then my dad would stick his head in my room. (This was right after I graduated from college and I had moved back to my parents' house because I had no money.)
Dad: "How many jobs did you apply to today?"
Me: "Five."
Dad: "Hey, ya oughta do five more, okay?"
Me:
Hateful. He never stopped pushing me. Needling me. I felt bad enough as it was and then he always made me feel like I didn't do enough. That I was a slacker. Hey, ya oughta be slacking some more, okay, Dad?
But you'll probably agree with me--it isn't slacking. It's unbridled, anxious fear of the unknown. Shit, if I can't picture it, I don't have control over it. And I must have control over it.
I hated looking through the job ads thinking they'll never hire me and I hated the phone ringing because it might be The Lady or The Man From The Company. I hated the phone not ringing. I hated going on the interview. I hated coming back from the interview and having my dad say something like, "hey, don't stop there--go on to the next one."
The shittiest thing of all is that even when I hid under the covers and avoided everything, I felt sick to my stomach and dizzy because I refused to face it. I just wanted to lay in bed and wait for the job to land in my lap. Like a man was gonna knock on my door and say, "hey, ya oughta come work for us, okay?"
And if I landed one, then I'd have unbridled anxious fear about negotiating salary, screwing up on the job in the first week, getting lost and being late to work, not knowing where to eat lunch, wondering if they really wanted me or if they're getting ready to fire me, if I could even do the job, and of course, my dad would say to me, "hey, ya oughta keep looking, okay?"
Looking for a job is just plain hideousness. But you know what isn't? The freaking paycheck. God, money is so great. I love having money. Money is what ultimately got me out of bed and made me stop feeling so sorry for myself. It's better than laying in bed. Not by much, but it is.
