Your Unemployed Daughter

Make a wish, bitch!

An alternate tagline for Your Unemployed Daughter, if one found “the halcyon days and sleepless nights of a formerly high-powered media exec” to be lacking in some way (Are they not halcyon? Are they not sleepless?) could very well be “a lifetime overachiever copes with the fact that she was fired.”

Not as good a ring, I know. That’s why I picked the other one.

Yesterday, June 11, was a special day, marking one month from the day I was laid off. It’s my unemployment-iversary, if you will. And remember how I was kind of bitter for a while?

Well, one month in, I’m feeling pretty good. I’m sure you were wondering. I have some freelance work (Mom & Dad, don’t send that check yet. But you could donate. It’s only $10. That’s what the cheap grandma used to put in our birthday cards in 1986, just sayin’.). Things seem to be, in many ways, going in the right direction. The best part about it is, I feel … free.

Back in the days when I was employed/enslaved by my former TK-named employer/slave-driver, I would escape to the gym to blow off steam whenever I could, whenever I wasn’t intoxicated (learned that lesson fast) or harnessed to my cubicle. At some point during my cardio, inevitably, I’d check my heart rate. A number would pop up – something in a relatively-healthy-adult-exercising sort of range. And then I’d think of the woman who would go on to deliver my fatal blow at TK Company.

My heart rate would jump at least 5 increments. No lie.

Yesterday, when I placed my sweaty palms on the heart rate panels of the treadmill, I purposely thought of that special someone. I’ve been doing this all week, actually. But you know what? Every time, it stays the same! They tell me physiology don’t lie. I guess this means, Whori, that I am over you.

So if you’re reading this, I’d like you to know – I’m actually glad you fired me! You really did me a favor. The best thing about it? You have no power over me anymore. That’s something you can’t get from a paycheck.

Now, I’m not going to stop calling you Whori, cause that’s pretty funny, and laughs are good for the heart, too (you should try them some time). I certainly don’t like you, I disapprove of your face and your tacky fashion choices, and I will continue to check Gawker daily for news of your demise. But I will stop actively plotting your doom. I’m pretty sure you’re going to take care of it for yourself anyway.

Smooches,
YUD