Your Unemployed Daughter

shoes, aka, WMDs

Perhaps the worst thing about getting fired (ahem, laid off!) is the other (employed) people thinking the event has been so devastating that you’ve taken to your couch in tears, or worse, aren’t getting out of bed at all … that you are self-medicating (whiskey? Klonopin? Cutting yourself with the sharp edges of your severance agreement?) among pizza boxes and your own human detritus … that, in fact, you’ve suffered something so near death that they can only look at you with lowered, basset hound eyes, pat you on the shoulder, and whisper “Sorry” in low tones when you face them in the bar. (Aside: How many of these people have bought me a drink? Priorities, puhleaze! If I needed a therapist, I’d pay one.)

The worst fear in these well-meaning but misguided souls’ minds is that you, dear Unemployed Personage, will NEVER fully recover your lost earning potential and that you just might take matters into your own hands and be done with it all. Bullshit! Their worst fear, actually, is that they’ll be next. That’s why they have that hangdog expression when you get near, are prone to hugs and cliches, and leave the party early claiming “work the next day” under their breath. The truth: They’re not so sure they want to be associated with the taint of the unemployed. They can smell you (so can I – just cause you’re not working doesn’t mean you don’t need a little reg soap & water, hon).

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an East Village street, 5:30 p.m., Wednesday

Last night, I enjoyed drinks al fresco with some former coworkers. It was a balmy 80-some degrees, perfect for street-watching and beer drinking at an outdoor cafe I’d never have snagged a table at had I gotten out of work at 8 p.m. (Had I, in fact, been Your Employed Daughter.) To one side sat a table of bankerish types in baseball caps and polo shirts discussing COBRA and the benefits of moving home to Jersey. On the other were some smoking East Villagers who generously shared a light with my former EIC and discussed the proper amount of space one should give between tables and smoking area. At one point, a fellow in a pink button-down offered us a dollar for a cigarette. I said, “Can you make it $2? We’re unemployed!” His response: “So am I!” And the former hedge fund manager got a Parliament for free.

Oh, 2009! How you’ve evened our playing field. Unemployment: bringing douchebags and media types together at last!