You know your hair is long when it gets stuck in your armpits, or when you try to lift your head after leaning it against the seat of your car, but you can’t because your hair is stuck between your back and the seat. You know what I mean?
Anyway. This past weekend was lovely – a good time with family and friends and food. It was good for me, because I lately I’ve found myself acting a hermit again. This happens sometimes, and I never know if it’s a good or bad thing.
In college I took a class called “Interpersonal Communication,” and I remember learning that the older you get the happier you become. It’s because old people have fewer friends, but they are more satisfied in their relationships, or something.
I think I’m becoming an old person. I have my close friends, and I’m fine with that. Most of my friends live anywhere but here, so that makes it especially easy to be a hermit. A happy hermit, mind you.
Another contributing factor to my hemitness is the fact that I DON’T HAVE A JOB. I was counting on this YMCA position that stole my heart, and the lady who interviewed me acted like I had nailed it – she winked at me and said I should be hearing from her soon.
So I waited…and waited. I called once, and she said she was checking my references. That’s a good sign, right? So I waited some more. Finally, yesterday, I called her. “Um, hi. Remember me? Hope? The girl you winked at? The one you made believe would land this job? Um, I’m just wondering if I did. Because it’s been two weeks. And, you know, I’ve just been waiting.”
She remembered me (how could she not? We had connected on a deep level! We were soul sisters!) and then she told me that I didn’t get the job. I listened to her as she said I was one of the top candidates, that my references were “impeccable”, that I was highly qualified and the decision was hard to make and yadda yadda yadda.
I said thanks, hung up the phone, threw myself on my bed and burst into tears. I felt like a boy had just broken up with me. Really, I did. Because when boys break up with you they’re always like, “You are beautiful and hilarious and wonderful you are going to make some guy so happy one day.” What they’re saying is you’re pretty much perfect, but they don’t like you. HOW DOES THAT MAKE ANY SENSE. If I’m so great, then why don’t you like me? I’d rather be told that I look like the Wicked Witch of the West and have the personality of a dead cow, because then I’d be like, “Ohhhh. That’s why they don’t like me.”
After I wiped my tears (no mascara marks! yay!) I immediately started applying for other jobs. Let me tell you this: I am so freaking sick of filling out job applications. I’m sick of listing the last three jobs I’ve had, or putting down three references, or checking that I am a U.S. citizen and have never been convicted of a felony.
I was so sick of it yesterday, that by my third application I only filled out half of it. And when it asked what I was interested in I put Jesus – I didn’t even care if it ruined a job prospect for me. My handwriting was sloppy, so much that sometimes I wrote out of the lines.
And then I turned it in and talked with the manager as I held back more tears. We weren’t exactly soul sisters (I’m not ready to open myself up again), but she liked me – we connected on the fact that her daughter is doing Teach for America right now, and I have my final interview with them next month. She told me that everything looks great, that I just need to meet with the other manager, who is on vacation right now. So I guess it didn’t matter that I only filled out half of the application in messy handwriting. Maybe I should start doing that more often. Then if I don’t get a job at least I’ll know why.
The reason why not getting the Y job affected me so much is because I’ve been dying to be a part of something bigger than myself. I was a part of the World Race, and I’ll be a part of Teach for America, but right now I have nothing. “I’ll just coast through a lame job in my uniform as my hopes and dreams gather dust in the corner,” I wrote about this upcoming year in my diary today.
I know, I know, my life is a ministry and where ever I am or work is a ministry too…blah blah blah. It’s easier to believe when I’m doing something I love. I guess I really am dying – I’m dying to myself, to my idea of how things should go and the way things work.
Or maybe I’m just pms’ing. Who knows.
Sometimes I question why I don’t just move to the beach and live in a hut and sell sunglasses for a living.